


Back to the Garden

by Antosha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Slash, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Gen, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Horcrux Hunting, Logical Luna Lovegood, Love, Love Triangles, Luna Lovegood Being Luna Lovegood, M/M, Multi, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, POV Multiple, Past Nymphadora Tonks/Bill Weasley, Past Relationship(s), Past Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Polyamory, Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Pre-Threesome, Seer Ron Weasley, Sex While Using Polyjuice Potion, The Burrow (Harry Potter), The Power the Dark Lord Knows Not - Freeform, Threesome - F/F/M, flaming nargles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 161,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: The path to Paradise runs through flame. (160,000+ words. Written pre-DH — finished a week before DH was published.)
Relationships: Anthony Goldstein/Daphne Greengrass, Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Susan Bones/Neville Longbottom
Comments: 21
Kudos: 31





	1. Number 13a, Grimmauld Lane

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend and beta, aberforths_rug, who makes even the most harrowing literary journey a pleasant quest.
> 
> This story grew out of some previously unconnected fics featuring H/G and R/P — and Luna's musings on "the power the Dark Lord knows not." And it got complicated from there.
> 
> If you'd like a somewhat more canon-relationship-compliant, less explicit version of this story, read [The Wisest Course](https://www.phoenixsong.net/fanfiction/story/5045/) (R/Mature), up on Phoenix Song.
> 
> Warnings: Teen sexuality. Multiple partners. Polyjuice sex. Violence. Character death. Gen. Het. Femmeslash. ( ~~No slash planned to this point, but you never know...~~ Just a bit of slash.) Wild PoV shifts. For those of you here for the sex0rs, give me a few chapters to get things rolling.... ;-) 
> 
> Challenge/Prompt: flamingnargle Second Annual Flame On! Challenge / #27—Only two survive.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never know what you'll find in the neighbors' garden.

People came and went and he didn't usually notice—dead of night to skip the rent, or a moving lorie and a bunch of dago movers in the middle of the day, it didn't matter much. His flat—which the landlady had had the brass to call a 'garden apartment'—had direct access to the road and the weedy garden, and he didn't have to deal with any of the people in the building unless he felt like it, which he mostly didn't.

Grieving. He was grieving, that was it. Didn't want nobody to interfere with his grieving.

The smell of curry and onions constantly floating down from upstairs was interfering, that's for certain, and he'd tried to do something about it, but there were bloody fifteen of them in the ground floor flat, and he couldn't understand a word a one of them said. And he wasn't going to do them the favor of moving out. He'd show _them_.

People in and out, and he might as well have lived out on a heath somewhere.

But he noticed the two women the minute they moved into the building that had the garden across from his.

It was the redhead he noticed first, drawing open drapes on the second floor of the townhouse that no one else somehow ever believed was there. She wasn't his type, really, the ginger-haired one: small, no tits to speak of, but a look in her eye like…

Like a hunting bird.

The blonde was more his style, going by shape: nice set of coconuts, what looked to be a lovely, round bum if the window had been _just_ a bit lower. She was talking to somebody on the first floor, waving something around.

Her eyes too caught his attention: pale blue and misty, even across the two back gardens.

Something about them gave him the collywobbles. But something about them looked familiar. Made him want to look more.

And he hadn't touched a girl in months.

Grieving.

He splashed some water on his face in the kitchen sink, ran his fingers through his thin blond hair; the mirror showed him a face no longer smooth and round, but mottled and tired, lined and blotched.

Sighing, he grabbed a jumper, pulled it on, unconsciously tucking in his aunt's old locket, and stepped into the garden for the first time in months.

The blonde was up on the second floor now too, and they were both talking—talking to someone else in the room, maybe, or someone downstairs. Short hair, both of them, and faces pale as those statues Mrs. Addison had brought them all to see, and he'd tried to hang Harry from the doorknob, but the knob had turned to rubber.

He should have known.

In the window, the two women leaned closer to each other—to whisper? Had they seen him? No.

A kiss.

Sweet and long and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, though he should have been disgusted, he supposed—his mother certainly would have been. Red hair and blonde hair, mouth seeking mouth, and his heart just stopped.

They looked out of the window and _now_ they saw him and even though their window was closed, and they were a hundred feet or more away, he found himself saying, “Sorry.”

 _Sorry_? Why? That was bloody…

Suddenly their window slid up— _who did that?_ _—_ and the blonde said, in a voice that managed to carry down two storeys and across two gardens, “Come, please.”

He didn't feel as if he had any choice in the matter. His feet led him across the weedy lawn to the neglected shrubbery at the back to where a gate stood—where did that come from?

An inkling tickled at him then, but he ignored it—or he wasn't allowed to pay attention to it—and pushed open the rusty, unwilling gate.

Stepping into the neighboring garden, he felt as if he'd been pulled into a different world. Here the shrubs were green and lush, seemingly wild and yet neat. Flowers blossomed in every possible color. The walk was lined with shimmering reptile scales the size of his face.

The hair on his arms bristled. He'd crossed into a different world, all right—a world of freaks and freakiness. A part of him wanted to turn and run back through the gate to his own brown, neglected garden and his basement lair. He might have thought it was some bloody spell that held him, but in truth it was the sight of that kiss, of those two doing something so small and graceful—a glimpse of a place he knew once but couldn't find again.

He shook his head. Rubbish. Swotty rubbish.

The smell of onions and curry wafted across from his building, mixing with the roses and honeysuckle and lavender and dozens of other plants, familiar and unfamiliar, that sweetened the air of this garden. Somehow, the stench of old Mrs. Kumar's cooking didn't fill him with rage as it usually did.

The rear door to the house opened—it was a proper house, not divided up as flats like the rest of the places in this grubby slum—and the two birds sidled out. The little ginger one still looked ferocious; the blonde smiled. Each held what looked like one of Aunt Marge's thick old knitting needles loosely in her hand, and he felt the hair go up on the back of his no-longer-quite-so-thick neck. He knew, then.

“Hello,” sighed the blonde. She seemed to be gazing up at the bloody clouds. Her bubbies jiggled wonderfully as she came down the steps. Yup. Her backside was indeed nice and round.

“H-hullo,” he murmured.

“Are you from the _Prophet_?” asked the redhead, her hand squeezing her stick—her wand, his mind finally conceded.

“Er… the _what?_ ”

“Don't be silly, Ginny,” said the blonde, her voice still light. “I know all of the reporters at the _Prophet_. And look at him—no wand, and such odd clothing. He must be a Muggle.”

The one named Ginny gave a tight shake of her head; her wand was now pointed right between his knees, and he felt right nervous, as would anyone with any sense. He knew what even a little freak could do with one of those. “No, Luna, come on. The Fidelius may be down, but there are two hundred years worth of Muggle-repelling charms on this house, and Bill's just added some more.”

“Oh,” he said in spite of himself. “That's why n-no one can see this place.”

The redhead smirked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Right. So what are _you_? A Squib? You can't tell me that you can see this house and that you've got no knowledge of our world at all, friend.” Her wand point was aimed _above_ his knees now, and he felt his stomach begin to go jiggly, like it used to before a three-rounder.

“Uh,” he stammered, “well, my c-cousin's one of you lot—”

“Your… _cousin_?” The blonde witch blinked her enormous eyes—it seemed to take minutes.

“Er, yeah?” His gaze flicked from the ditzy blonde to the short one. “He, you know, lived with us? Growing up?”

The one called Luna blinked that slow-motion blink again, and then smiled. “Why, Ginny, do you realize who this is?”

The redhead blinked too, several times, and slipped her wand into her back pocket. She walked towards him, that bright, claw-sharp look in her eyes—a little on the small side, but not a _girl_ , definitely a _woman_ , small tits and all. Moved like a bloody cat. She smiled, dangerous still, but sexy, right? “ _Was_ one of our lot, you bastard!”

Then she unleashed an overhand right that would have done the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast proud, and knocked Dudley Dursley cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art at the top of the chapter by Reallycorking, detail from “Interest Meme: Ginny, Luna and Bandaids,” used with permission.


	2. The Marseillaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between Parkinson and Weasley, nothing quite goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a comment-fic for maegunnbatt...
> 
> Warnings: Train sex. Unresolved post-sexual tension.

"So," she mutters, suddenly conscious of the silence between them--of the way the toilet lid pounds against her back as the carriage sways along the tracks; of his breath, ragged against her collarbone; of his cock, pulsing as it softens inside of her--"what are you up to this summer, Weasley?"  
  
His head pulls back from her chest, and the chill air on her half-clad breasts reminds her that they are still not far from Scotland. "Can't tell you," he says, and he has the good grace to seem unhappy about that, a bruised look pinching his face. "Can't tell _anyone_."  
  
"Ah," Pansy says, "traipsing after the Potter?" When the bruised look doesn't alter, she begins to climb off of his lap, but he holds her in place.  
  
"What are _you_ doing this summer?" Weasley asks, his eyes dark and frighteningly open.  
  
 _Helping idiot Draco to find a way to keep himself and his mother alive. Trying not to let him or Nott or Millie get sucked back into Lord Wormbrain's little army_. "Can't tell you. Can't tell anyone."  
  
He nods sadly, and helps her up off of him; the _plop_ when they disengage is probably the saddest sound Pansy has ever heard.  
  
As she's pouring herself back into her bra and he's buttoning away her not-so-little piece of him, she asks, without looking him in the face, "I don't suppose anyone you know will be anywhere near Canterbury on July 14?"  
  
The train-sound-filled silence tells her that he's figuring the angles, reminds her that he's not as stupid as he looks. "Why?"  
  
"Because my mother's French and she always drags the Pater off to Paris for Bastille Day. And if one were to check at the Hound and Hynde on Chandler Street in Canterbury on the fourteenth of July at, say, one in the afternoon, one might be directed to the room of a Miss Harris, who might be... accepting visitors."  
  
Again the tiny WC is filled with train sound, and now Pansy isn't sure what he's thinking, and so she looks up; his face is stony, but the eyes still dark and open. "One o'clock. July fourteenth. The Hound and Hynde on Chandler Street in Canterbury," he mumbles, and together, they nod.  
  
Before her resolve breaks any further, she opens the door into the corridor and finds a Hufflepuff third-year girl, gaping at their state. "Close your mouth," Pansy snaps, "before someone uses you as an ashbin."  
  
She feels him brush past her and down the corridor towards Potter and Granger and anger flares through her--but the sight of his broad shoulders, of his not-quite-down-in-the-back jumper and the un-done tie over his shoulder send an entirely different emotion through her, one for which Pansy Parkinson has no name. Walking towards her own compartment, preparing herself for Blaise and Daphne's preening prattle, Pansy finds herself humming the Marseillaise, and she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's Pansy was inspired by the work of Maegunnbatt and Slytherincess.
> 
> The art at the top was adapted from Reallycorking, “Pansy Parkinson” with permission.


	3. The Wisest Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna puzzles out the answers to some questions.

( _#8 Up: Ares's son._ )

As the train sways along southward towards London, Luna tries to unpuzzle the Crypto-Quibbligram without remembering that she wrote all of the clues herself just last month. She does this to distract herself. She wishes to distract herself for a number of reasons, most having to do with the girl sitting next to her, Luna's best friend Ginny; some having to do with the boy sitting directly across from Luna, her other friend, Harry; and several having to do with both of them together. Also, Neville is snoring onto Luna's shoulder, Hermione is scribbling madly in a diary, and Ronald seems to have been ambushed on his way to the loo, since he's been gone for what feels like hours.

Observation: Ginny Weasley, who is rarely still, is leaning silently and motionlessly, forehead-first against the compartment window, staring out at the Perthshire countryside as it whizzes by. Deductions: Either Ginny Weasley is unhappy or she is suffering from an acute case of Nargle infection. Inferences: It is rather late in the year to be suffering from Nargle-induced depression, therefore Ginny Weasley is sad. Most likely she is sad because of Professor Albus Dumbledore's death—they are all sad about that—or her own brother Bilius Weasley's near brush with death two nights ago. It also seems possible—likely, even—that the very serious conversation that Ginny Weasley shared with Harry Potter at Professor Dumbledore's funeral this morning has been in some way negatively affecting Ginny Weasley's mood. Deduction: Ginny Weasley is sad. Possible responses: A) Hug Ginny Weasley. B) Engage Ginny Weasley in a game of Exploding Snap or a discussion about Stubby Boardman's comeback tour. C) Ask Ginny Weasley what is bothering her. D) Hug Ginny Weasley. E) Sit and give Ginny Weasley time to think through whatever is bothering her.

( _#4 Upper-left to Lower-right: The sound made by a blue-pelted creature living in Sussex and parts of Savoy up through the late eighteenth century, at which point they went into hiding somewhere in Scandinavia._ )

Observation: Harry Potter is looking fixedly at Ginny Weasley with an expression that the observer (Luna Lovegood) has only ever seen on her father's dog, Cadwallader, when the dog has treed a squirrel and knows that it will not be able to climb up and catch the small creature. Deductions: Identical to those inspired by observation of the first subject, Ginny Weasley. Inferences: Likewise identical to those that flowed from the observation of the first subject, Ginny Weasley. ( _Luna likes to observe the first subject. Such observation is frequently… entertaining. And edifying. She also likes watching the second subject, and recently has taken great interest in observing the two subjects together. Not at this particular moment, however. They are neither entertaining nor edifying at the moment, not at all._ ) Deduction: Harry Potter is sad. Possible responses: A) Hug Harry Potter. B) Engage Harry Potter in a game of Exploding Snap or a discussion about Stubby Boardman's comeback tour. C) Ask Harry Potter what is bothering him. D) Hug Harry Potter. E) Sit and give Harry Potter time to think through whatever is bothering her.

( _#8 Center-top to Middle-right: Assyrian word meaning “Snorkack.”_ Eight letters, ending in _K_.)

Several things complicate her planned responses: in the first place, she has never hugged Harry, and isn't sure how Ginny might react to such a course of action. Luna has hugged Ginny many times, but isn't certain, in this moment, how she herself might react to such a course of action. Also, Luna knows that any mention of his godfather is likely to upset Harry, so the Stubby Boardman topic is out of the question.

Observation: Luna Lovegood is fidgeting, which is not her normal mode of behavior at all. She has put down and picked up _The Quibbler_ three times in the last hour, has jumped every time the train sends Ginny's hip or Harry's knees bumping against her own. Her hands are trembling, her breath is short, her brassiere feels abnormally tight and her knickers rather more snug and humid than Luna can in any way reasonably explain. Deduction: Luna Lovegood is in a state of excitation. This state most closely conforms to a state of mild but persistent sexual arousal. Inferences: This state is most likely a result of either: A) a definite sexual attraction as well as a sentimental attachment to Ginny Weasley; B) a possible sexual attraction to as well as deep admiration for Harry Potter; C) sexual attraction to _both_ Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter ( _Luna has been having the most interesting dreams…_ ); D) ovulation; or E) too much tea. All things considered, Luna thinks it probable that all five are involved. Possible responses: A) Hug Ginny Weasley. (Already discounted.) B) Hug Harry Potter. (Likewise.) C) Hug them both. D) Disrobe. E) Run to the loo and relieve some of the agitation with which she seems to be plagued—as well as the effects of drinking too much tea. F) Sit and work on the Crypto-Quibbligram.

( _#2 Widdershins spiral: Incantation spoken to attract all members of the_ mustiladae _family within a one-mile radius to the spell-caster._ Eleven letters, begins _AC_ , ends _ET_.)

Luna is weighing the relative merits of D), E) and F) when Ronald Weasley returns to the compartment looking disheveled and smelling vaguely medicinal. Yes—he seems to have been relieving some of _his_ agitation in the loo. Luna is considering following his example, but notes to her interest that upon his entrance the tension in the compartment has both increased and decreased, and she is intrigued. Hermione has looked up from her writing. Ginny seems to be staring at her brother in what appears to be a most shrewd manner. Neville manages to snort back to waking, and Harry gives what looks to be the first faint smile he has shown in days. “Glad you could make it back, mate. We were about to send out a search party. You get lost?”

Ron straightens his tie. Apparently, he wishes to avoid looking at Harry, Hermione (who is also smiling), or Ginny, and so he meets Luna's gaze. “Nah. Just walking the corridors. Trying to help out, you know.”

“Ron, taking your prefect duties seriously,” says Hermione brightly. “I never thought I'd see the day!”

Ron frowns, eyes still on Luna. They seem dark somehow, those blue eyes. “Yeah, well, you know… Anyhow, it's pretty quiet. Couple of bawling first-years next carriage back. But the Slytherins are definitely… no problem.”

“Miss the annual attack?” Harry asks with a smirk that looks as if it would belong more on Ginny's face than on his. Perhaps he stole it?

“Nah,” mutters Ronald, finally looking away—out the window, like his sister. “Crabbe and Goyle look pathetic, like bloody bookends on an empty shelf. And the rest… Well, bloody Malfoy can bloody die. He's not missed.”

“Ron,” murmurs Hermione. “Hatred isn't worth the energy.”

“No?” Ronald asks. “Don't you think he's earned it?”

“No,” Harry answers, and they are all of them—even Luna—surprised.

“C'mon, Harry!” mutters Ronald. “If you looked up 'git' in the dictionary, it'd have a picture of his pointed bloody face in the definition!”

Harry nods and shrugs. “Yeah, but… He is a git, and a prat, and a self-centered, bullying, moronic blood-purity snob. And he brought the Death Eaters into the school. But I saw him, that time we fought in Myrtle's toilet, and… and up on the Astronomy Tower. He was _scared_ , Ron. For himself. For his mother.” He shrugs again and looks out the window— _following Ginny's gaze?_ “So no, I really can't find it in my heart to _hate_ the git. I mean, don't get any wedding invitations printed or anything.”

Luna can feel Ginny's back bowing, as if she's holding in a snort of laughter, and it makes Luna herself giddy with relief.

“No?” asks Ron again, his tone light now. “We're not going to have Peeves flying around shouting 'Potty LURRRRRVES Ferret'?”

They all laugh, even Ginny, though her eyes never leave the countryside.

“Peeves is a very silly spirit,” Luna says, glad for once to get the joke. “He shouted out that Harry loved me, you know.”

Again, Ginny's back bows, only it doesn't feel like a stifled laugh this time.

( _Oh, dear, I seem to have caused a silence again. I'm rather good at that._ )

Harry stammers to fill the gap. “N-no, I don't think Peeve's'll have the opportunity to spread tales of about Malfoy next year, Ron.” His shoulders get terribly square the way they do when Harry is doing something he knows he _should_ do, like when he tried to get Luna, Neville and Ginny not to come to the Ministry that night. He's looking right at Ginny now. “Don't think he'll get to say much about _me_ , either.” He sighs and softens and glances over at Luna. “Did that hurt your feelings, Luna? When Peeves said that? I mean—”

“Oh, no, Harry,” Luna says with as much of a giggle as she can manage. This too is not her normal mode of behavior. “I don't listen to Peeves much. He's quite mean and stupid. Besides, I don't believe in love.”

( _Oh. I seem to have done it again. What have I said?_ )

Even Ginny is looking at Luna now; all of her friends' faces are wide and disc-ish. Disc eyes. Open disc mouths. Hermione speaks: “Really, Luna? I mean, you seem to believe…”

“Oh,” Luna elaborates, “I believe in hormonal urges and instincts—the parenting instinct, the reproductive instinct, the self-preservation instinct and the urge to companionship that lead one to surround oneself with sympathetic, like-minded people. Social conventions that encourage certain mating behaviors. Complex interactions of the pleasure and power principles. But I don't particularly believe in some large abstract idea like Platonic Love or True Love or anything like that, so there was nothing about what Peeves said to get upset about. I _am_ extremely fond of you, Harry, and sexually attracted as well, but Love? Really, there's much more reason to believe in Humdingers and Nargles.”

Luna looks around the compartment. Neville and Ginny both appear to be quite upset, as if she's said something obscene. Ron has his bewildered face on, while Harry's is stony. Hermione frowns. “That… makes sense, Luna. I disagree with you absolutely, but it makes utter sense.”

“Can you refute my hypothesis?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Hermione's frown deepens. “Let me think about it.”

“Of course.”

Harry lets loose a long, very melancholic sigh. “I'm utterly screwed then.”

“Why?” asks Ginny. It is the first thing that Luna has heard her say since this morning.

He opens his mouth to talk, but no sound seems willing to come out. He is _emotional_. Harry is never _emotional_. Except perhaps when he is angry, and then he's simply male. He looks up at the ceiling and takes a breath and all of the agitation that Luna was feeling earlier is focused suddenly into a powerful urge to comfort him. Without looking back down, Harry says, “Dumbledore was always on about how Love was the one thing that I had that Voldemort never did. That it was my… _power that the Dark Lord knows not_.”

Ginny's hand grasps at the hem of Luna's robes. That last sentence has the distinct sound of Doom and Divination, and Luna refuses to believe in them either.

“The thing is,” he continues, a bitter humor now sharpening his tone, “if Love doesn't exist, what have I got against _him_? I mean, I'm a bloody Hogwarts sixth-year. Good student, but not great. Really good flyer, but can you see me and old Tom settling our differences over a friendly Quidditch match? What else have I bloody _got_?”

“You've got us,” says Neville, and now Luna seriously considers hugging _him_.

Harry gapes, apparently _emotional_ again, and manages a soggy grin. “Lucky me.”

Ginny laughs, and so do the rest of them, Luna too, although she feels certain this time that she _doesn't_ get the whole joke—that Harry and Ginny do, but that it doesn't matter finally. “Perhaps I'm wrong,” Luna says. “Perhaps I've mistaken lack of evidence for non-existence. And, of course, there are always Nargles.”

“Right,” says Harry. “Nargles.”

“I believe in love,” Ginny says, looking back out the window. Her grasp remains tight on Luna's robes, however.

“Me too,” says her brother, and the two words manage to convey so much meaning so simply that Luna almost wants to ask him just what it is that makes him believe, what it is that he believes in, but she decides that this would not be a terribly good idea.

“What about you, Neville?” she asks instead.

Neville Longbottom looks down at his green-stained fingers—they'd been covered in blood that night that the Death Eaters attacked. “I… I'm not sure what I think.”

“Ah, a skeptic,” Luna says, nodding sagely. “I think that that is the wisest course to take.” They all smile—sadly again, it is true, but together—and as the train rolls and jiggles along, Luna returns to the Crypto-Quibbligram.

( _#7 Out: #8 Up's domain. Four letters, beginning L, O, V…_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art at the top of the chapter, TomScribble, “The Wisest Course,” commissioned by Antosha.


	4. 'Night Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You _can_ come home again. But you won't necessarily find what you expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. You read that right above: for the very first time, Antosha writes from Draco Malfoy's point of view.
> 
> :audience gasp:
> 
> Without a net.
> 
> :louder gasp:
> 
> Warnings: Gen-ish. Some (extremely subtle) femslash-y undertones. One horror sequence.
> 
> This chapter has absolutely nothing to do with the play of the same title by Marsha Norman. 
> 
> (Thanks as always to my beta, aberforths_rug! Luna truly wouldn't be Luna without you!)

It isn't as if Pansy expected her mother to _be_ there at King's Cross when the train pulls in—it isn't as if she expected her mother to put herself out so much. And Daddy, of course, _would_ be at the office and then the club until well after sundown. Pansy's father likes to joke that if he were to see the Parkinson home by the light of day, he'd go up in smoke like a bloody Vampire.

But she _did_ expect them to send Ferguson with the Bentley, or at least to leave word and a Portkey home. If they weren't going to be inconvenienced, at least they could be expected to pony up the Galleons.

What she did certainly not expect was to have to beg to share a Muggle cab ride into Buckinghamshire with a sniffling Cho Chang and a glaring Marietta Edgecomb.

And she definitely did not expect to have to sit there, stiffly persevering under their hostility as industrial northern London gives way to the gorgeous, rolling countryside they all grew up in. Pansy sighs at the irony: if they hadn't left yesterday before breakfast, she could have at least shared a ride out with the Patils. They don't particularly like Pansy, nor she them, and they've hardly spoken a dozen words to each other since they all arrived at Hogwarts, but at least they live in the same village. At least they grew up together.

And their father works with her father, so at least they'd be _politely_ silent, instead of radiating frigid antipathy.

She'll be getting plenty of that from _Maman_.

When the cab reaches the Parkinsons', Pansy tosses a few large-looking Muggle bank notes at the front seat and turns to close the door.

“Bitch,” mutters Marietta.

“That's rich,” sneers Pansy, retrieving her trunk from the driver, “coming from a swot with 'SNEAK' written on her forehead.”

Edgecomb bursts into tears, burying her face in Chang's shoulder.

The black Muggle auto rumbles off down the lane, and it can't rumble fast enough for Pansy's taste.

As she walks up the drive to the house, Pansy can see that things must not be going terribly well. The Fanged Geraniums by the gate are overgrown, which might prove frightening if they weren't also drooping and faded. One takes a lackadaisical nibble at Pansy's skirt—smelling Weasley there?—and Pansy swats it away with her handbag. The gravel on the drive doesn't look to have been dragged in months.

The front door is ajar.

In the entryway, things look more normal: the floor glistens, the chandelier sparkles, the portrait of _Grand-père_ glowers imperiously down from the wall opposite the front door. At least their elf Baubo seems to be keeping up appearances.

Pansy finds her mother in the sitting room, her eyes as green and milky as whatever it is she's sipping from her tiny crystal glass. “Good evening, _maman_ ,” Pansy sighs.

“Ah, _ma p'tite_ ,” Claudine Parkinson slurs. “You are 'ome…”

“Yes,” Pansy says, biting the inside of her cheek. “I owled.”

Her mother gives a half-hearted, dismissive wave of her hand—her free hand.

“I thought you'd send the car at least. Where's Ferguson? And the garden's a mess.”

Pansy's mother lifts her upturned nose haughtily. “Of course I would have sent 'im if 'e still worked for us. _Hélas_ , 'e does not. Old Maltby 'as died—per'aps you saw it in the papers—and 'is son is only willing to do 'alf the work for the same pay. It is shameful.”

Pansy looks at her mother, who seems to have tipped over the line from elegance to dissolution so, so easily, and she feels a cold weight in her stomach. “It's gotten bad, hasn't it, _maman_?”

Claudine Parkinson does not acknowledge the question. She takes a miniscule sip from her ghostly aperitif and stares out the window to where the sunset faded hours ago.

Pansy sighs. “ _Bonne nuit, maman_.”  
  


***  
  


As her mum bustles her out of the Floo and into the Burrow kitchen, Ginny feels none of the reassuring presence that she thought and hoped to find here.

It is empty.

“Father is doing something for work—not another raid, I hope, he's got people to do that _for_ him now.” Molly Weasley glances at her clock, all the hands of which are pointed at _Mortal Peril_. As if that's a surprise. “Fleur's staying with Bill up at Hogwarts till Poppy lets him loose. The twins, well, you know.” They helped Ginny to the Floo at their shop, and then went back to work—some big order of Shield Hats for the Ministry.

Ron. For the first time since before she started school, she's home without Ron.

It was so painful on so many levels, listening to Ron's side of the conversation as he told Mum through the Floo that he was going with Harry—and Hermione—to stay with Harry's awful Muggle relatives. So painful to stand opposite Harry and that stony face, knowing he knew how much this hurt her, but doing it anyway. Hermione, chewing her cuticles to shreds. Painful, putting her own head in the Floo and seeing the hurt and challenge on her mother's face, knowing that, even if Harry had extended the invitation to her, it would have been over Molly Weasley's dead body that Ginny could have gone.

In a year and a month, Ginny will be of age, and no one will be able to tell her what to do or where to go. And then he'll see how it felt to have to go along with something because you have no choice.

Ginny looks at her mother, who is absent-mindedly twisting a cloth between her hands. With a shudder, Ginny's mum snaps out of whatever nightmarish fantasy had eaten her brain. “Have you had anything to eat, Ginny, dear?”

Ginny shrugs. “The twins stood us dinner at the Leaky Cauldron.” Mostly, they wanted to get the full story of what had happened the night… The night Dumbledore died. Harry's hand cool and limp and unresisting in her own as she led him away from the base of the tower.

“You sure?” Mum asks, being Mum. “A spot of tea?”

Ginny shakes her head.

“Is… Is something bothering you, Ginny? I mean, beyond all of what's happened the past few days?”

The impulse to spill it all, to weep in Mummy's lap and unburden all of the problems and fears floods up, but Ginny finds her mouth snapping shut. It's not possible any more. Mummy can't fix everything any more. Daddy can't protect her. There's only herself. And Harry. And their friends. “No, Mum,” Ginny says with a shake of her head. “Just tired.”

“Oh,” says Molly Weasley, deflating slightly. “All right then. You get a good night's rest and everything will look better in the morning, I promise.”

“Thanks, Mum. I sure hope so.” Ginny places a kiss on her mother's round cheek, more lined now than Ginny remembers. “Good night, Mum.”  
  


***  
  


“We must be quick, Draco,” snarls Snape, and Draco finds himself bristling for what feels like the thousandth time in the past two days. “We must collect your mother and be gone before anyone—”

“I _know_. Professor. I _know_.” It isn't as if the greasy half-blood hasn't told him this over and over again all day long. Frustration bubbles up. “I don't see why we can't simply go back to where the Dark Lord—”

“I have told you, you insolent, idiotic puppy, it would not have been safe. We might have been followed. And besides,” the Dark Lord's one-time favorite mutters, “going before our lord too soon might not have been… wise.”

“For _you_ , perhaps,” Draco says, feeling some pleasure at least in Snape's discomfort. “At least _I_ achieved my mission.”

“ ** _I_** achieved your mission, fool!” Snape snaps.

As they walk out onto the lawn, revealing the back entrance to Draco's home, Draco feels a sense of pride flooding up to match and increase his rage. “Listen to me, you simpering, fence-sitting half-blood!” he hissed. “ _I_ brought our fighters into the school. _I_ made sure that Dumbledore was out of the way and cast the Dark Mark to bring him back to the school. _I_ disarmed the old fraud—”

“And stood there, staring at a wandless old wizard while the Order and Potter's little friends nearly rescued him.”

Draco scowls. Potter. Potter wasn't there that night until they left. That would have been the salve to the humiliation of his moment of indecision. His moments of indecision. _That frail, open face. Open, fearless blue eyes. No fear…_ Draco grunts. He wanted Potter to be there, to _see._ He wanted to _show—  
_

“Come, Draco,” hissed Snape. “Let us see to your mother and get out of here as quickly as we can.”

The door opens to Draco and he strides into the house where he is now king.

The house is quiet and dark, except for a light in the library—not usually Mother's room, but that seems to be—

Narcissa Black Malfoy is slumped in the huge wingback chair that has always been her husband's throne. She squirms oddly, as if she is about to vomit.

At her side stands a tall, gaunt figure that haunts Draco's nightmares. He stumbles to his knees. Together with Snape, he mutters, “My lord.”

“Ah, look, my dear,” says the Dark Lord, stroking the blonde hair beneath his hand, “Draco has finally come to visit. And he has brought along our good friend, Severus.”

“You honor me, my lord,” Snape croaks.

Draco is doing his best simply to hold his bowels together as he stares down at the polished old oak of the floor. His mother…

“Draco, Draco, what has taken you so long to come and see me?” The Dark Lord's voice is high and deceptively light. Even from his limited experience, he knows how quickly this tone can shift. “I would have thought, after the great and utterly unexpected success of your plan, that you would have hastened back with the news, ready to reap the rewards due to you.”

“My lord…” Draco's throat is dry and constricted. He cannot get the words out.

“My lord,” Snape says, and his interruption is as much a relief as an annoyance, “we feared that we would be followed. We did not wish to bring—”

“You, Severus, did not wish to put yourself in a position where you might find yourself foist once again on the horns of Narcissa's nasty little Vow. Is that not so?”

Draco feels Snape shiver beside him, and then he knows they are in for the worst, that Snape's foolishness have taken away any glory Draco's stratagem might have gained them and that they will be subject to slow, long torture. He is about to cry out that it was Snape's idea to run and hide, Snape's fear that kept them away, when he hears a sound that he has never heard before.

The Dark Lord laughs. “Ah, Severus, my friend, I cannot blame you for wishing to relieve yourself of that sword over your head. Nor can I blame you, Draco, for thinking I might be… unhappy with you at your inability to finish what you started.” The last words were spoken with an icy menace altogether devoid of light or laughter.

Draco's body rebels.

“Oh, please, Draco, control yourself,” said the Dark Lord, a small hint of lightness returning to his voice. “I do not punish those who have helped make possible my third greatest ambition. Do not mistake me: I will brook no further failure. But I shall not punish you. Not… _now_.” The Dark Lord laughed again, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Your dear mother, however—I am afraid that I have had to be most severe with her for interfering with my plans, for obligating my servants. Yes, her sister revealed all to me, Severus—their visit and the Unbreakable Vow. Bellatrix is most… penitent. But Narcissa I am afraid needed to be dealt with… _most_ severely.”

Draco could not help glancing up; his mother's head lolled obscenely from one side to the other, and she still looked on the edge of being sick.

The Dark Lord gestures magnanimously with one long-fingered hand. “As for you two, a nominal punishment, I think: sent to bed without any supper. Appropriate, don't you think, my sweet?”

As Draco and Snape began to back out of the room—Draco cringing at the feel of his own filth in his trousers, the Dark Lord snaps, “What, Mr. Malfoy? Leaving without kissing your mother goodnight?”

“Of c-c-course n-not, m-my l-lord,” Draco stammers, scurrying forward.

As he walks up to the chair his mother continues to sway oddly. The Dark Lord steps to the side to give him room, which should be a relief but is not. Draco leans forward. Narcissa Black Malfoy's eyes are set, the pupils milky and contracted to pinpricks, and she smells of death. As he leans close to kiss her cheek, Draco feels no breath from her nostrils. His lips touch cold flesh.

Her mouth explodes open, jaws unhinging with a snap, and a huge snake's head bursts forth, the fangs catching Draco lightly by the neck. He freezes.

“Now, now, Nagini,” said the Dark Lord, that humorless laugh lightening his voice again, “young Draco simply wishes to wish his mother good night. Say good night, Draco.”

The snake's fangs loosen slightly. Draco whimpers, “G-good night, m-mother.”  
  


***  
  


Luna's father pulls the duvet up to her shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. The smell of the Diricawl down, the rough grit of his chin against hers, the hoot of their owl Ganymede playing with the Gnomes in the garden—it all makes her feel very young and very small and very safe, and Luna's toes curl in satisfaction. “So, Popkin. Welcome home. It's good to have you back.”

“It's good to be back, Daddy.” It is hard to believe, lying here in their snug home, that just a few nights ago she and her friends were, once again, facing Death Eaters. Really, it seems quite fantastical.

“So, did you have a nice ride back with your _friends_?” Mercury Lovegood breaks out in what Luna thinks of as his Zomo-the-Rabbit grin, the one that lets her know he is teasing. It is very helpful of him, since Luna sometimes misses her father's jokes, which has always made both of them rather sad since her mother died. Her mother always used to translate these things for Luna.

“Oh, yes, Daddy,” Luna says with a smile. “My _friends_ and I had a lovely time, once everyone got over being all solemn and quiet from the funeral.”

“Hmmm,” hums Luna's father. “Two years in a row that I find my daughter and her _friends_ in the middle of the biggest news story of the year. Rita's trying to come up with a name for you lot. She's rather taken with 'Potter's Avengers,' but I'm more in favor of 'Harry and his Henchmen.'”

“Oh, dear,” Luna says. “I don't think Harry would like that very much. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that _I_ like it very much.” She pulls her knees up and buries her face in the comforter, trying to think. “How about 'Dumbledore's Army'?”

“Hmmm.” Luna's father frowns for a moment, and then begins to chew on the idea. “Dum-ble-dore's-Ar-my. Hmmm. Yerss… Yers indeed, I think that would work rather nicely. Wasn't that the name of that Defense club you were in last year?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna answers with an emphatic nod. “It was Ginny's idea—the name that is. The club was Hermione's idea, and Harry's of course.”

“And that was where you learned to fight together?” Luna recognizes a different clever look on her father's face: his newshound look.

“Yes, Daddy. Though…” Now it is Luna who frowns—not something she does terribly often. “Daddy, do you know much about Felix Felicis?”

Mr. Lovegood's eyebrows shoot up toward his distant hairline. “Enough, Popkin, enough. I know that Ministers for Magic have been abusing it for decades. It's what happened to old Fudge—it stops being effective soon enough, but the feeling of infallibility never goes away. Fascinating stuff. Why?”

Luna peers at her father. He was a Slytherin, and so he doesn't understand the idea of knowledge being valuable in and of itself; for him, it's all about using it—buying things with it, influencing people with it. Luna understands this view of knowledge, but honestly, there are times when simply understanding something feels more important than anything. It is one way in which Luna is learning to accept that her father and she disappoint each other. “Well, Hermione shared a small dose with each of us before the Death Eaters showed up—a half a dram's worth, which should have lasted us each an hour or two. It was Harry's—he'd won it from Professor Slughorn, I think.”

“Yes, good old Sluggy. But, Luna my sweet, why do you mention it?”

“Well, I think that it's how we all escaped from the battle relatively unhurt—other than poor Neville, who got rather badly knocked about again. Honestly, I don't think his new wand suits him any better than the last one did. He's a much better wizard than his wandwork seems to show.” Luna thought about her friend, thought about sitting with him at the funeral just this morning so odd… “Did you know that stinksap makes an excellent salve for bite wounds? Quite smelly, but very effective.” Bill Weasley, still in bed… That French girl gadding over him—Floo? Flan?

“Luna?” She has lost him. She is used to this. They both are.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Felix Felicis?”

“Oh! Yes. What I was thinking about just now was this: right after we took the potion—right after we saw that Draco Malfoy had let Death Eaters into the school—Ginny, Neville and Ronald ran up towards the Astronomy Tower, which was quite fortunate, since that is where the Death Eaters were headed—they were able to round up some of the members of the Order of the Phoenix who were patrolling the school—”

“The _ORDER OF THE PHOENIX_ was there!” Luna's father yelps, looking very excited indeed. “That wasn't in any of the reports! I didn't think they still existed! Fudge and his predecessors always claimed it was a myth, a kind of pat-each-other-on-the-back wizard's club, like the Dark Arts Defense League! You mean they were actually there!”

Luna is perplexed both at her father's excitement and at his incredulity. “Oh, yes, half a dozen or so at least. Dumbledore was their leader, you see. They were the ones who helped rescue us in the Department of Mysteries last year.”

“And the Ministry said it was the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and the Aurors. As if you could trust the Ministry flacks.” Mr. Lovegood's eyes are shining very brightly indeed: he has caught a scent.

“Well, there _were_ Aurors there too.” Luna peers at her father, trying to work out just what part of the story is so intriguing to him—this bit seems rather boring to her. Aside from the fact that Auror Tonks and Auror Shacklebold and the other Order members saved all of their lives the previous year. “But they are part of the Order too, I think.”

Mercury Lovegood looses a joyous bark of laughter. “ _Really_!”

Luna considers her father. Suddenly she recognizes his excitement. “Daddy, you're not going to publish all of this, are you?”

“I…” The happy gleam in his eye dims. “Oh. But Popkin, it's an important story—the Wizarding public have a right—”

Luna considers this. It is a view of knowledge about which she and her father agree: it should be freely available. She thinks too, however, about the way that Snorkacks will turn on members of their herd who have been touched by humans. Minister Fudge behaved rather like a Snorkack. Minister Scrimgeour seems to behave rather like a Snorkack too sometimes, even if he is a Vampire. “Daddy, I don't think that would be very nice. If we published their names or even the fact that Aurors were there, the Minister would probably be quite upset with them. He might decide to feed on them, which seems rather unfair considering they saved my life. And Ginny and Harry's. And the others.”

“Oh,” Mr. Lovegood sighs. Then he nods. “Yes. But if there is a way, luv, to write the story without putting them at risk, then we should. After all, _We Need to Know the Truth_!” It is the _Quibbler_ 's motto.

“Yes,” Luna admits, somewhat grudgingly. Her own sense of safety is greatly dissipated, but she has a mystery she needs to unravel, and that takes precedence over anything. “In any case, Daddy, while they were up in the Tower, Hermione and I both ran down to Professor Snape's office.”

“Snape! Nasty whelp. Wasn't he the one who…?”

Luna shivers. “Yes, and that's what I'm wondering, you see.”

Her father scowls at her quizzically.

“Well, Harry told Hermione that we should _watch_ Professor Snape if anything happened. But both of us felt strongly urged not only to keep an eye on him, but to tell him what was going on—that the Death Eaters were in the castle, storming the Astronomy Tower.”

He shrugs. “I'm not sure I see what's got you puzzled, sweetheart.”

She cocks her head. “Really? I'm sorry. I thought that was obvious. Wasn't it?” When he shakes his head, she continues. “We were _both_ dosed with Felix Felicis, Hermione and me. Why would we have felt compelled to tell him that if it led to something so disastrous?”

“I…” Luna's father blinks his large eyes slowly. “Do you know, Luna love, I've no idea. Makes no sense 't all.”

“No,” Luna agrees, pleased to have made at least part of her point.

“Well,” he says, drumming his fingers mutely on the duvet, “it's not like the potion is _omnipotent_ or anything, is it? I mean, maybe it just knew you were less likely to be hurt—”

“I don't think so,” Luna answers, and they are both surprised. Luna scarcely ever interrupts anyone. “Hermione and I would have been least likely to be hurt that night if we'd stayed in our dormitories. I was writing an essay on Bowtruckles.” _No,_ she thinks _, the potion compelled us to seek out a wizard who would cast the Killing Curse not a half-hour after we last saw him. How odd._ “Have you ever taken Felix Felicis, Daddy?”

He blinks. “Erm, as it happens, Popkin, yerss.” Mr. Lovegood runs a hand through the wisps of hair atop his head. “The, erm, night I proposed to your mum.”

“Oh.” Luna looks over at the photograph of her mother on her nightstand. Celestia Lovegood smiles beatifically as she always does and waves at her daughter. “Well, what do you suppose would have happened if you had _wanted_ to propose to Mummy, but she had been a really horrible person? Would the potion have stopped you?”

Luna's father blushes and grins. “As it happens, Luna-love, I hadn't intended to propose to your mother that night at all. I was going out on a job interview, and a friend had slipped me a dram or so of Felix. When I stepped out, I saw your mother standing there on the landing—she and your grandparents lived on the flat opposite, you know, and I'd seen her and talked to her, but we'd never had a proper _date_ or anything—and this voice told me very clearly that the job could wait, that spending the money on a nice dinner with your mother would pay off much better than buying newish robes to try to get a job working as a mail clerk at _Witch Weekly_.” He grins again. “It did, too. Paid off in spades.”

“Hmm,” says Luna, who has to agree. “So, that only proves my point, doesn't it? Letting Professor Snape kill Professor Dumbledore was the _right_ thing to do.”

Her father's eyes sparkle and his nostrils flare, story-sniffing again. “So… was Dumbledore up to something Dark, do you think? Scrimgeour and the Black Forest vampires, perhaps…?”

“No, no, I don't think so, Daddy. I think…” Luna tries to remember. “Harry said, when he saw them on the tower…”

“The _tower_? What was your friend doing there?”

“He saw the whole thing.” _What had he said…?_ “He was under an Invisibility Cloak and a Full Body Bind. He said… He said that Professor Snape… was under an Unbreakable Vow.”

Mr. Lovegood leans back on the bed, stunned and silent.

“And he… I think he said Professor Dumbledore was quite ill.” Luna could see the scene in her mind: the headmaster, slipping down the wall; Draco Malfoy—who was rather a horrid boy—standing indecisively, his wand at his side; a group of menacing Death Eaters… And Professor Snape, pale and desperate. All of them washed green in the light of the presumptuous Dark Mark over their heads.

Professor Dumbledore pleading. _Please_ , Harry said he said. Holding up his blackened hand…. Would the headmaster have pleaded for his life? No. He had what Luna considered a very healthy attitude about Death; they had discussed it on numerous occasions. Just this past Christmas…

“At Professor Slughorn's party this year, when Harry took me as his _friend_ …” A heat creeps up into Luna's cheek, which she finds rather peculiar. “Professor Dumbledore and I were talking, and I asked him about the Arch at the Department of Mysteries, do you remember the one? It was quite fascinating—Harry and Ginny and I all heard the spirits behind it, though I don't think Hermione or Ronald did.” _I will wait for you, Luna-love. I will be here…_

Her father is staring at her again, lost but patient.

“The headmaster said… He said, 'No one can tell us what waits behind that veil, Miss Lovegood.' Then he laughed and said, 'I look forward to knowing myself rather soon.'” _Alas,_ he had continued, _I regret to say that I am unlikely to be able to provide you with any information. But if any opportunity presents itself, I promise that I will let you know._ For which Luna thanked him enthusiastically, and turned to continue her conversation with Professor Trelawney.

“So what did you take from that, Popkin?”

“Oh, at the time, I just thought it was one of those moments when an old person talks about being old. But…” **Observations** : A) Professor Dumbledore was badly injured. B) Professor Dumbledore had presentiments of his own mortality. C) Hermione says that he and Professor Snape fought during the year, that Professor Snape said he “didn't want to do it any more.” D) On the night when the Death Eaters attacked, Hermione and Luna both took small but sufficient doses of Felix Felicis. (Side observation: Both Ron and Ginny broke up with their lovers the night that Harry took the Felix Felicis. Was that _his_ luck? If so, why Ron?) E) After taking the potion, Hermione and Luna sought out Professor Snape and, against Harry's orders, told him about the invasion. F) Professor Snape was under an Unbreakable Vow. G) Professor Dumbledore said, “Please.” H) Professor Snape killed Professor Dumbledore. I) One cannot cast the Killing Curse without conviction. J) Professor Dumbledore was defenseless in the midst of a group of Death Eaters who were there to see to his murder. **Inferences** : A) Professor Dumbledore knew that he was dying. B) The Felix Felicis potion impelled Hermione and Luna to send Professor Snape up to the Astronomy Tower so that _he_ would be the one to cast the curse. **Deductions** :… “Daddy, I think Professor Dumbledore wanted Professor Snape to kill him so that the Unbreakable Vow wouldn't kill Professor Snape, because if Professor Snape _didn't_ they'd both be dead. I think the Felix Felicis thought it would serve me and Hermione best—and possibly the others as well—if Professor Snape lived.” She bites her lip and considers. Are there other possibilities? A mass attack of Wrackspurts confusing them all? No. Not likely. “Daddy. I think Professor Snape is a double agent for the Order. Or possibly a rogue Heliopath.”

Mercury Lovegood's mouth drops open. Luna has seen him do this when she's shared her inferences before, but never with quite such a hungry, bright look in his eye. “Luna. Popkin. Luv. Either way, _THAT_ is a story. Do you think you can find out more for me? Get me some more material?”

Talking to Ginny. Talking to Harry. _Oh_. “Yes, Daddy.”

Mercury Lovegood leans forward and kisses her on the cheek again, and once again the smell, the rough feel of being tucked in by Daddy wrap Luna in a cocoon of comfort and she sighs contentedly.

“Good night, Popkin,” says her father from the door.

“Good night, Daddy.”

Luna snuggles into her bed. Out the window she can make out the dark swell of Stoatshead Hill, beyond whose the other slope… On the other side is Ginny. And the Burrow. _I believe in love_ , she said, and Luna wonders at that, that someone as passionate as Ginny Weasley or Ronald would believe in something so vague and insubstantial.

Luna ponders at it for a while, the nature of this thing, or rather these things that people call Love, and finally resigns herself to ponder at it some more. Perhaps this is another thing that she can talk to Ginny about, which would be rather nice.

Really, it is much easier to believe in Blibbering Humdingers.

“Do you believe in Love, Mummy?” Luna asks her mother's photograph.

Celestia Lovegood smiles easily, her eyes pale and wide. It is as much of an answer as Luna supposes she can expect.

With the pass of a hand, she puts out the candle beside her bed. As she worms down under the covers, she peeks back up at the snapshot one more time and says, “Good night, Mother.”

 _Good night_ , mouths the little figure, blowing a kiss, and Luna fades into comfortable, pleasant slumber before her mother's hand has returned to her lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art at the top of the chapter, Hillary_CW/Cambryn, “Demeter and Persephone,” used with permission.
> 
> A/N: Hee. Sorry about what aberforths_rug likes to call the Dark-Mark-as-Performance-Art bit. Tame for some of you, I'm sure, and nightmarish for others, but I just couldn't stand to let Draco off easy. ;-)
> 
> ETA: Yeah, when I read DH, the Bathilda Bagshot scene made my jaw drop. This chapter came out about ten months before Deathly Hallows hit the shelves.


	5. The King of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it's all in the cards.

> ###  **_Can McGonagall Keep Our Children Safe?_ **
> 
> _In the aftermath of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s shocking murder on school grounds,_ writes Hieronymus Twit, Special Correspondent (for the latest on the Ministry’s investigation, see page 3) _, many Hogwarts parents are demanding answers…._

Hermione tosses the copy of The Daily Prophet to the floor with a disgusted snort, evoking a glare of surprise from Hedwig, who is perched atop the dresser that the three of them are sharing. “Can you blame me, girl?” Hermione asks the owl. “Poor Professor McGonagall.” 

Out in the roseate morning light that splashes over Privet Drive, Ron and Harry stretch, preparing for their jog. Ron had to be all but tackled the first morning when he attempted to go out in bright orange Cannons sweats—the Seeker madly dodging Bludgers and zipping through the letters of the team name—and so both are wearing Dudley’s cast-off Smeltings gear. Harry’s shirt and bottoms still look elephantine, though he no longer has to roll the cuffs twice for length. Ron’s on the other hand must be older; they fit him quite, quite well, far better than they could ever have fit either Harry or Dudley, and Hermione is surprised at the feelings that this observation spark in her.

For the first few days she joined them jogging about Little Whinging, but at this point their legs are too long for her to keep up and still allow for them to get a good run in. Hermione, therefore, has been staying back and enjoying a bit of quiet before the days start, doing some light reading— _The Prophet_ can certainly be called light—and handling any correspondence. Later in the day, once Harry’s uncle has disappeared and his aunt has set the boys to work in the garden (Hermione’s boys, of course—never Dudley, heaven forbid), Hermione will watch an exercise video that she borrowed from her mother—kickboxing, which Hermione is quite certain her mother has never done in her life—and will work up a gratifying sweat imagining battering the various members of the Dursley clan as she strives to prepare herself for what she knows will be a long, uncertain and all-too-literal battle ahead.

When did Ron’s shoulders get so broad? When did his back develop all of those muscles? When did his…?

The two boys stride off up Privet Drive, their shadows long beside them.

Ron’s back…

Hermione shivers, and peeks about, trying to spot their minder. She hopes that it is someone fit, like Kingsley Shacklebolt or Tonks, and not Elphias Dodge. The last time he tried to follow them under an Invisibility Cloak, he nearly had a heart attack.

A tap on the window brings her once again back to the cramped little room that they have been sharing for the past week or so. An owl—Ron’s Pig—is fluttering against the window. She transfigures her camp bed back into a desk so that she can reach across and open the pane, allowing the silly thing to zip in and deposit a letter in her lap before flitting up to Hedwig’s cage to molest the more dignified bird.

From Ginny.

Addressed to Hermione.

A single sheet. No enclosure.

Hermione sighs. Every time that Ginny’s name has come up, every time that a letter has come from the Burrow, Harry has got this look of pained expectation on his face that simply breaks Hermione’s heart. She has some idea of what happened at the headmaster’s funeral—she and Ron watched them talking to each other, both looking oh-so-civilized and oh-so-mature, and ever since then Harry has been fairly obvious in the way that he has refused to discuss his girlfriend. Clearly, he has gone all stupid and called things off, or put them on hold, or set her free, or some other Harry-like, infuriatingly self-sacrificing thing, and Ginny, the silly girl, has gone _along_ with it.

Not a word spoken between them on the train back. Hermione was never so happy to listen to Luna prattle on, even when the subject turned to love—or Love—and Hermione watched Ginny and Harry and Ron's faces all reflect the same stomach-churning anxiety and pain that she herself was struggling through.

Ron.

His tears in her hair at the funeral. His arms around her shoulder. His warmth. His Ron scent.

And yet that is the only moment since the headmaster's death when he has been himself to her. His eyes have been dark and shuttered and _old..._

Hermione is not used to feeling younger than Ron and Harry. But for the past week, for all that she has remained the task master, the source of information, the boys—her boys, her _men_ —have gone about preparing for their quest with a singleness of intent that Hermione has only ever seen in them when they were preparing for a Quidditch match.

Hedwig hoots at Pigwidgeon in disgust, and Hermione shakes her head.

It isn't time to moon. Or snog. Harry and Ginny know that, for all that it's clear that they're going about the whole thing wrong.

She slides her finger through the wax of Ginny's seal. Perhaps she's sent a message for Harry. That would be good.

> _Ginny Weasley_
> 
> _The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Devon_   
>    
> 
> 
> _June 28_
> 
> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Well, Fleur and Bill made it back down today, which is wonderful news, since it means I'm not stuck alone with Mum day after day after day. Dad's back to working insane hours, just like last year, since the whole Ministry is flopping about like some huge Flobberworm, terrified of where the Death Eaters are going to attack next. The Order has met too—the whole lot of them trooping into the kitchen of the Burrow after supper, and I was sent up to my room as if I were still six, but George slipped me a pair of Extendable Ears that I threaded through the floorboards and into the room, and so I got to hear every word of... Well, I'm not going to tell you what I heard, for two reasons: first of all, it wouldn't be safe to talk about those things in a letter—Ha! See! I'm not so rash and impetuous after all! Also, for once I'm the one who knows things and other people don't and perhaps they can see how they like it. So there._
> 
> _Also, it was bloody boring. But don't tell other people that._
> 
> _News I can share: business on Diagon Alley is still down, but the twins' mail order business is absolutely booming. Literally. The night of the meeting, they slept here. They were working on a huge order of Shield Hats, and George fell asleep in the middle of casting one of the charms and blew the window out. Mum made him and Fred put it back, which seems only fair._
> 
> _Also, Fleur and Bill have set a new date, now that he seems to have made it through the full moon. When Mum asked Phlegm what it had been like, Phlegm got this really digusting look on her face and Mum got all blushy and fluttery. And Bill winked at me. WINKED. I wanted to vomit. Sort of._
> 
> _Anyhow, the Great Day. It's set for August 15—and it's going to be at the Burrow. The funny thing is that Bill was the one who was pushing to have it in France, but apparently her family want to have it here, Merlin knows why, and Mum and Fleur both insisted. So I've been slaving away in the garden, weeding and pruning and warring with the gnomes who seem to find the whole thing incredibly funny. Neville came over. He was quite ~~attentive. So there.~~ helpful._
> 
> _Luna's been by too. Odd as always but very sweet. She's been staring at me a lot. I think I may have Nargles in my hair or something._
> 
> _Her dad wants her to write a report for his rag about that night, you know, when ~~Dum~~ ~~Profe~~ the headmaster died. I think it's great, because she actually knows and cares about the truth of what happend, unlike all of those gits at the _Daily Profit _(yes, Hermione, I know how to spell—that was a joke)._
> 
> _So... that gives me an excuse to ask... When are you going to be here? YOU HAVE TO BE HERE FOR THE WEDDING. I'm hoping you can be here before. To talk with Luna for her article._
> 
> _Besides, I miss ~~everyone~~ you._
> 
> _Love, Ginny_

Hermione sighs and folds the letter again before getting up to head off to take a shower.

 _Everyone misses you too,_ she thinks.

  
  


***

  
  


On her way back from the bathroom, Hermione is surprised to find Dudley Dursley standing in his doorway, smirking and trying to look either sexy or tough and failing miserably in either case. "So," he says, his beady eyes glittering, "three of you?"

"Yes, Dudley," Hermione says as politely as she can manage, though one week has already taught her that something loathsome is coming. Dudley can't seem to open his mouth without saying something horrid. "There are three of us." She manages to swallow a suspiciously Weasley-like voice that mutters, _Well spotted._

Dudley's smirk broadens to a smarmy grin. "So what's it, you know, like? Are they both your boytoys, or do you all, you know, _share_."

"Of course not!" Hermione snaps. She should have seen this coming.

"Yeah, well, I always knew Harry was kinda, you know, light in the loafers. Kept moaning on and on about his _girl_ friend summer before last, some gaylord name of Cedric."

Hermione can feel her blood pressure rising. It is by an extreme act of will that she manages not to grab her wand and hex the baboon to pieces. "In the first place," she says, "it wouldn't make any difference what sex Harry preferred. He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

Dudley simply snorts like the pig he is.

"At the age of eleven, Harry Potter faced Voldemort, the dark wizard who murdered his parents, when Voldemort wanted just two things: to steal something that Harry was protecting and to kill Harry. Harry was alone and unprotected. He didn't back down. When he was twelve, he killed a sixty-foot-long snake with eyes that could have turned him to stone in order to rescue Ron's sister— _she's_ his girlfriend, by the way, and she's barely five feet tall, but if you ever dare to threaten him, I promise you she will make you wish you'd never been born into this sterile little backwater. When he was thirteen he rescued his godfather when a Dementor was about to suck the soul out of his body—you know all about Dementors, don't you, Dudley?" She notes with some pleasure that one massive hand flies to Dudley's mouth. "When he was fourteen, he flew circles around a flame-breathing dragon and faced down Voldemort again, when an older wizard named Cedric Diggory was killed. Harry watched him die. And brought Cedric's dead body back for his parents. So it's no wonder that he had a nightmare or two. When he was fifteen, he defended _you_ from a pair of Dementors, though why in heaven's name he did that I have no idea. And last year, he survived an attack by several hundred Inferi—revivified corpses, quite horrific. He's the bravest, kindest friend anyone could ever want. Just as Ron is the most loyal friend anyone could ever want. So yes, Dudley, there are three of us sharing one tiny room because your family aren't gracious enough to offer us the guest bedroom even though it’s unoccupied. I've risked my life for them, and they've risked their lives for me, and we'll do it again soon enough, and who do _you_ have that you can say that about, Dudley?"

Harry's cousin stands there stock still, his eyes wide, his mouth covered.

Hermione feels a surge of perverse pride course through her. She has managed to silence Dudley without violence, without magic, without even a threat. "What _I_ want to know," she continues, her arms crossed before her, "is just what memory the Dementors could possibly have dredged up in that thing you call a mind. Was it the time you got thirty-six presents instead of thirty-eight? Or did you bruise a knuckle punching some eight-year-old? Or did you twist your ankle stomping on the stairs over Harry's head while he was locked in the _bloody_ cupboard?" Hermione shivers, trying to control her rage; it is just as well that Ron isn't here, since he would have teased her mercilessly for swearing, even as he congratulated her for laying into Dudley so effectively.

"Made some toys fly to me," Dudley says through his fingers, his face slack. "Dad thrashed me, and Mummy was screaming the whole time. Only time they ever did that."

"Made...?" Hermione blinks, trying to reorder her thoughts, to integrate this new datum. "You... picked up—?"

"No. Made 'em fly. 'Cross the room. Mum called me a freak and said I knew how freaks were treated and Dad just..." Dudley blinks and stares down at his hands.

"Dudley... How old...?"

"Dunno. Maybe five. Six."

 _Good lord_ , Hermione thinks with a shudder. "And... and has anything like that ever happened again, Dudley?"

The huge boy looks around nervously, shrugs, and lowers his voice to a hiss. "Yeah. Coupla times. My first year at Smeltings? Nurse tried to put me on a diet, but no matter what they put on my plate, when I got to the table it was always steak and kidney pie or fish and chips, double helpings. Things like that. Never here though, and _don't tell no one_!" He grimaces, his heavy cheeks quivering, and suddenly an impression strikes Hermione: Dudley, much older, even heavier, with his father's blonde walrus mustache....

"Dudley," she asks, matching his whisper, "does the name Slughorn mean anything to you?"

"'S my middle name, isn't it," he answers, thin eyebrows screwed together. "It's like a family name. My dad's mum's last name before she married Grandad, I think."

Hermione stiffles an urge to giggle. _Of course..._ "Oh," she says. "Yes."

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


  
  


"It's all pointless if I can't shut my mind to him," Harry mutters.

They are sitting in the cramped room; the midmorning sun floods in through the window. Harry is flipping through a book on Wizarding genealogy that Professor Lupin sent from Grimmauld Place—the endless search for RAB. Ron is playing solitaire with a set of cards left over from Divination. The owls are dozing. The lawn has been watered, Hermione has had her fill of imagining kicking Vernon and Dudey Dursley in all sorts of unlikely and unpleasant places, and they are having their morning 'study' period.

"Perhaps Occlumency isn't the answer," Hermione says, not for the first time.

"We'd better hope not," Harry says. "Professor Dumbledore already told me I'd never be any good at it."

"Well," Ron says, prodding at one pile of cards with his wand, "I've always found the best defense is a good offense. Maybe you should try going at it the other way."

"What," Harry laughs humorlessly, "when he tries to take over my mind, start tossing chess pieces at him?"

Hermione finds herself staring at Ron, who is slack-faced, still flummoxed by his card game. "No, Harry. I think Ron means something else. Do you remember, when Prof... When Snape was using Legilimency on you, how you got him out?"

Without looking from the Who's Who, Harry purses his lips. "I... I don't know. I ended up looking up at a bunch of thoughts... They must have been his."

"Legilimency, Harry!" Hermione gasps, "maybe that's the answer!" The noise disturbs Pigwidgeon, who manages to let out an excited, high-pitched hoot without waking— no doubt dreaming of some unexpected praise after a difficult and dangerous mission.

The boys look up, not at Hermione but at the little owl. "Ginny sent a letter?" Ron asks.

"Well, yes," Hermione says, off-footed. "It came while you were running."

Harry looks back down at his book, but Hermione can tell that he has stopped reading.

"Anything, you know, interesting?" Ron continues to play his cards.

"Well," Hermione says, looking back and forth between the two of them, "Bill and Fleur's wedding has been reset to August fifteenth. Will we... Do you think we'll be able—?"

"We'll be there," Harry says, his face still in the book. "We'll stay here until I turn seventeen and the blood protection runs out. I promised Dumbledore."

 _Heavens_ , thinks Hermione, _a whole month here. How will we stand it?_

Ron nods and begins gathering up the cards and shuffling. "Right. And then we go to Grimmauld Place, and start looking for Horcruxes. And working on Legilime-whatsis, maybe."

Legilimency, Hermione thinks with an annoyed smile. "Well, I was hoping perhaps that we might go to the Burrow," she says quietly. She might as well have yelled. Both boys look up, their eyes wide with very different hungers. "It... it might be our last chance. For quite a while. I think it's only fair to your mother, Ron, that we spend some time before we disappear to... wherever it is we're going to go."

"I don't think..." Harry starts, but his heart doesn't seem to be in it and he runs out of momentum before he can share just what it is that he might think. _Stupid, brave boy!_

"She's right, Harry. It'll give us a chance to check in with everyone. I'm sure the whole Order will be trooping in and out, right?" Ron asks. Hermione nods. "It'll give us a chance to, you know, say goodbye. To everyone."

Hermione has to squelch an overpowering urge to run over and kiss Ron. He's been so skittish since the funeral—since that night when Draco let the Death Eaters into the castle—and she doesn't think that he will take it terribly kindly. Nonetheless, she is sorely tempted.

Harry looks at Ron and then Hermione before turning to the wall. "Okay. Okay. We'll go to the Burrow. After my birthday."

Ron nods, and Hermione nods with him. He begins to lay out his cards in a different formation.

"Did she…" Harry says, very hesitantly, "did she say anything else?"

"Luna’s writing an article for The _Quibbler_ about the night that… Dumbledore died _._ She wants to interview us. George and Fred blew out a window at the Burrow," Hermione answers, a smile finding her lips that—for the first time in days—is neither forced nor tempered. "And she says she misses... everyone." Which is true enough: Ginny did write that, even if she scratched it out.

Harry sighs deeply and flips open his book again.

Hermione stands and then stops. If Harry were Ginny, Hermione would go over and hug her at this point, and Ginny would yell and rail about the stupidity of boys, and Hermione would agree, and they'd both have a good cry. But she can't do that with Harry. In the first place, he never cries—she's only seen tears in his eyes twice, once after Cedric's death, and the other at the headmaster's funeral. Even after Sirius died, as angry and sad as he was, Harry's eyes remained dry. Beyond that, hugging Harry would not _help_ the situation. He can barely stand to be touched under the best of circumstances—one more thing for which to thank the Dursleys—and Hermione doesn't think Ron would be terribly comfortable either.

Instead she walks over to where Ron is dealing out what is now very clearly a Tarot reading. "What rubbish!" she mutters before she can think of anything nicer to say.

Ron smirks up at her, then back down at the cards. "Hey, I figure it can't be any less entertaining than losing at solitaire. And since neither of you is willing to play chess with me—not that it's much fun thrashing you, mind—I thought I might as well try this. Let's tell Harry's fortune."

"Let me think," Harry says, still looking down at _Nature's Nobility_ , "I'm going to have a time of terrible conflict, and then I'll have to fight a nasty man with a face like a viper."

Hermione winces, but Ron laughs. "Yeah, well, the Inner Eye doesn't need to be very sharp to see that coming." He turns over the first card. "King of Wands. Huh. That's you all right. Excitable and show-off-y." Harry throws a dirty sock at Ron, which he catches and tosses back. "Let's see: three more cards: Lovers in the middle... Then on either side, the Empress and the High Priestess... Huh. Then... Two of Swords... Five of..." Ron is not grinning. He has his game face on—the same one he wears when he’s a few moves short of checkmate or he's in front of the goals playing Quidditch and he's _not_ afraid. He uncovers the rest of the pattern and then stares down at it. He looks up at Hermione, and then back down at the cards before releasing a long whistle. "Well... You're going to have a great love affair. Or maybe two, but I don't get that... And have a couple of kids who will grow up to be idiot bloody Gryffindors just like us, poor sods. And you'll win a great victory and be very happy. Either that... or you'll go on a long journey and all of your friends will be very sad."

"No death by a stampeding herd of Nifflers?" Harry says, not smiling. "Professor Trelawney would be so disappointed."

"Yeah." Ron shakes himself and gathers up the cards, putting them away.

"What," Hermione asks, "not going to cast your own?"

"Nah," Ron says, "It's bollocks, just for laughs. Though mind, Harry, I don't want to see those two kids of yours any time soon, right?"

Harry gives them a look of such open pain that even Ron can’t mistake it.

Another tap at the window breaks the silence. It's a school owl this time, and they can hear Aunt Petunia shouting at it from the front walk. Hermione lets it in and takes its three envelopes, and then it flies back off—though not before daintily decorating the Dursleys' lawn.

"School letters," Hermione says, surprised to see them so soon. She hands the boys theirs. Silently, together, they open the letters and begin to read. "Ah, they're delaying the start of the school year until November fifteenth, to implement some new security measures. Perhaps that will stop the Prophet from saying such horrible things about Professor..." As she begins to crumple the envelope in her anger, Hermione notices that it's not empty. "Oh." She reaches in. A shiny, gold badge with the letters _HG_ embossed on it. _My initials_ , she thinks, stupidly. She finds herself beginning to cry.

"Congratulations, Hermione!" Harry says, and his smile is genuine and warm, which makes Hermione cry harder.

"Th-thanks, H-harry... Wh-what about y-you?"

He shakes his head, but the smile is just as broad. "Who'd make me Head Boy? Can you name a school rule I _haven't_ broken?"

They both laugh. Ron doesn't join them.

He is sitting, slumped. In his open hand is a badge that matches Hermione's.

"Oh! Ron!" Hermione cries out, and this time she cannot stop herself—she throws her arms around him.

"Good on you, Ron!" says Harry, clapping their stunned friend on the shoulder.

"But... But... we..." stammers Ron. "We're... not going back."

"Well," sniffles Hermione, still holding Ron tightly, "perhaps we'll have finished with this whole mess by November."

"Sure," Harry says, still smiling, though she can tell that he doesn't really believe it. His eyes flash and he reaches under his bed. "Hey! Ron! There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Even if we do go back, I don't think I should be Quidditch Captain any more—I know how to play Seeker, but you know the game loads better than I do. Besides, the team were ready to kill me all last year." He comes up from under the expanded bed that the two boys share with another pin, this one emblazoned with the letters _QC_. When Ron just stares at it, Harry pins it to his collar; Hermione plucks the Head Boy badge out of his limp hand and pins it on the other side.

Together they pull him to a standing position. "Come on, Ron," Hermione says, maneuvering him over to the mirror on the wall. "Take a look at yourself." Ron straightens up and gawks at his own image in the mirror. He catches her eye; she grins at him moistly and he grins goofily back. Then he glances shyly at Harry.

"Let's see: House Cup, Quidditch Cup, Head Boy, Quidditch Captain. Ron," says their friend, a huge smile on his face, "you look good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image at the top of this chapter is drawn from the Waite-Smith-Rider tarot deck.


	6. The Middle Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One side, or the other.

Pansy exhales slowly, watching the smoke stream out from her puckered lips, across the bed, across Daphne, who was lying on her back staring up at Pansy’s fluffy pink-and-seafoam canopy. Across the floor towards the sunlit window. Out across the gold-splashed green-flow of the Buckhamshire countryside…

Blaise wasn’t kidding; this is _very_ nice Siamese Green. _Cannabis Magistra_. Pansy’s senses are wrapped in swaths of lovely, golden-green silk, and all of her rage and fear is drifting about three feet to the left of her head

“I think Loony Lovegood must feel like this all of the time,” Daphne sighs, and both girls giggle

“Bloody hell,” snorts Pansy. “That would explain an awful lot. Mad bint’s always on about all those bloody creatures because she’s got the bloody munchies!”

Again they giggle, and the world dissolves into golden-green…

“Anthony says she’s not really that daft,” Daphne says once they’ve run out of giggles; she plucks the mouthpiece to the hookah from Pansy’s hand. After a bubbling inhalation, she coughs and splutters. “Says she’s actually rather sharp.”

“Hides it bloody well,” snorts Pansy. _Bloody air-headed twit, babbling on about Blubbering Bollywoggles or whatever, someone should have let the air…_ Pansy gives her head a shake, and the irritation detaches itself and floats off to join the cloud with the rest of her sorrows. “Anthony?” Pansy grabs back the mouthpiece, even though she doesn’t think she should take another hit. “You still pining after that swot?”

Daphne pouts, her chubby cheeks flowing downward in the silliest way.

Pansy laughs. Really, Daphne is thoroughly ridiculous when she’s enamored, which is constantly. She followed Blaise around for two years looking like a bloody spaniel till he finally told her to go away. Blaise, the Great Black Love God of Slytherin, who spent his nights wanking to images of a skinny little freckled…

 _Freckles. Oh._ How can the mere thought of a sea of spots on pink flesh make Pansy’s middle flutter? _Really, it’s…_

Daphne smiles a bit, then laughs too. “He’s sweet. And he’s not as airy-fairy as most of the ‘Claws…”

“Maybe. But Goldstein barely knows you from Hecate. And he’s one of that crowd who follow Potter.”

“The world,” Daphne proclaims with the exaggerated seriousness of the terminally high, “isn’t divided into Draco’s friends and Potter’s friends.”

“It isn’t?” Pansy ponders this. A year ago it would have seemed ludicrous—the world was clearly divided into those who recognized the supremacy of pure blood—of whom the Dark Lord was the champion and whose self-designated lieutenant at Hogwarts Draco was—and those who opposed them: Potter. Dumbledore. Now… “You would know, I suppose.”

Daphne accepts this statement with a grand show of _noblesse oblige_. “And he knows who I am.”

“Does he?” Pansy asks, thinking, _Only because you, he and the Granger hag are the only Gs in our year._ That thought, too, joins the swelling cloud over Pansy’s nightstand.

Daphne nods. Then she frowns, her eyes seeming to darken as the already bloodshot whites disappear. Flopping onto her belly, she lizards her way over to Pansy and whispers, “Pansy? Have you heard from Draco?” This last word is spoken in so hushed a tone that Pansy suspects that it may have been a cannabis-induced hallucination on her own part.

Pansy decides to behave as if Daphne actually said the forbidden name. Staring up at her bed’s pink canopy, she shakes her head. Suddenly that dark, angry nebula is pressing around Pansy’s head, smothering and searing. Her forearms itch.

“I saw Millie yesterday.”

“Oh?” Pansy manages. “Is she…?”

Daphne shakes her head. “Not yet. She wants to, though. Greg’s been trying to get her to take it, and you know how Millicent is about Greg.”

The three of them. Tracey's been sneering at them for years, but then with her face and her name she has even less chance of snagging a boy from a good family than the Mudblood—Millie's always been happy that there's someone in their dormitory even more haggish than she is. Then again, at least Tracey Davis hasn't ever made an idiot of herself over some... The three of them—Pansy, Daphne, Millicent. All simps. All spaniels. Following their boys. _At least Millie’s always stayed constant. What was I…?_ “Yeah. Four brain cells between them and Millie gives her three to Greg.” _Freckles on pink skin. “Alons enfants de la Patrie…”_

“Anyhow,” says Daphne, “she said that Greg told her that Draco’s being made a bit of an example.”

The cloud seeps into Pansy’s smoke-clogged lungs. “He’s alive?”

Daphne shrugs. “Yeah. Though he, the Dark Lord, like I said, he’s making a bit of an, um, example of Draco—Greg kind of likes it, you know, showing Draco up after all those years of having to play the lackey.”

“Greg _is_ a lackey,” snorts Pansy, words and smoke puffing from her mouth like dragon flame. “Born and bred to it.”

“True,” concedes Daphne. Surprisingly, she giggles. “D’you think he and Vince really spent all that time Poly’d up as Nott’s little sister and the Harbottle girl like Blaise was saying? I mean, can you imagine it?”

“Not really, no.”

Daphne snorts, and stoned as she is, her face is looking more porcine than Pansy has seen it look in years. “I mean, Pansy, can you imagine them traipsing after him? Bet they weren’t half _terrified_ what he’d _do_ to them!”

The cloud congeals around Pansy. She swats at it, but it refuses to depart. “Bet they weren’t.” She takes another deep drag. _Bet they weren’t_ half…

The thing is, Pansy can in fact imagine _that_ —can imagine how Crabbe and Goyle felt. She remembers all too well second year, biting her lip as he probed around up her skirt, tell her what a sweet little tart she was, _his_ sweet little tart. It was terrifying, but she liked the way it tied him to her, the way that she could use the lure of access to her own body to keep him close. She remembers the sting of walking into the unused dungeon— _their_ dungeon—to find him pushing his thing into the little Dobbs bint’s face. She and Draco haven’t ever talked of it, but he _has_ to know why the cunt was eating through a straw for a month. She remembers the look of glee on Draco’s face in Umbridge's office at the end of last year while he surreptitiously groped the Weasley trollop—just before the nasty little thing hexed the bloody hell out of him. He likes _little_ girls. _Skinny_ girls.

Pansy shrugs her shoulders, feels the weight of her breasts flow with the movement. Nothing little or skinny about her any more.

“Millie says… says Narcissa Malfoy’s _dead_.”

 _Oh._ The cloud adds weight to its turgidity. “Wha?” _That can’t be true._

“That she was plotting against the Dark Lord, which sounds pretty bloody stupid, doesn’t it? She was going ‘round spreading rumors ‘bout him being nothing but a half-blood and all, which can’t have gone over well, and she tried to get Professor Snake… Prof… Snape to turn on him, like _that_ would ever happen. Bloody stupid, isn’t it?” Daphne lies on her back, following billows of smoke with one finger. “Well, must have been, ‘cause he had his great bloody snake _eat_ her, can you believe?”

“Oh.” Yes, that Pansy can believe. Yes, indeed. _Poor Draco_.

Daphne frowns, peering over at Pansy. “I… I’m sorry.”

“Never liked her much anyway,” Pansy says, but even she can feel the tears wetting her cheeks. If Draco has ever loved _anyone_ it is his parents. “Where?”

“What?” Daphne blinks. “Oh. ‘pparently they’re all holed up at Malfoy Manor.”

Draco’s room. Sprinkling the bed with black-red rose petals. Listening to the _I love you_ behind the moans and filth as he banged away. _I could go there right now. I could… Or I could…_

No.

This past year it all started so nicely. After the Bat-Bogey debacle, all Pansy had to do was say Ginny Weasley’s name, and Draco would obediently prove his devotion to her. Repeatedly. With what passed in him for great verve.

Then, starting around Halloween… Something was bothering him, and he _wouldn’t_ open up, not even to _her_ , who’s been at his side, thick and thin, but no, he was disappearing, he _said_ it was this mysterious mission, he _said_ with Crabbe and Goyle, but she saw him coming out of the girls’ loo more than once, all pale. _Buggering some second year, probably,_ she suspected at the time.

But now… There _was_ a mission. Draco _did_ bring the Death Eaters into the school, and they _did_ kill the headmaster…

Still, it’s obvious: Draco doesn’t trust Pansy. And…

“A _half_ -blood, did you say?” The mad snake-face, leading his pure-blood army… _Of course! He’s jealous of us all, that’s it, he’s…_

“Well,” Daphne says, playing with the beads that Pansy gave her when they were twelve, “that’s what Millie said that _Narcissa_ …”

 _He’s going to kill the rich, the powerful off for spite and Galleons, one by one, family by family, THAT’s what… He’s going to kill Draco._ Pansy sits up. The cloud in her head, the cloud in her room—they all dissipate in a blink. She has never felt more clear-headed. “You’re wrong, Daph.”

“What?” Daphne mumbles blearily. “Millie said that Greg said that Mrs. Malfoy—”

“No, no, silly twit, not _that_. The world _is_ divided. Not into Potter’s cronies and us, but into the Dark Lord’s toads and everyone he’s going to destroy—which is _everyone_ , Daphne, can’t you see? He’s going to suck us all dry, all of the pureblood families, all in the name of…” Pansy springs from the bed. _That’s where all of our money…_ Maman _, drunk in the drawing room…_ “He’s a bloody psychopathic bloody nutter who’s got to be _stopped,_ Daph, he’s going to bloody destroy us _all_.” _He’s going to kill Draco._

“Oh.” Daphne blinks up. “So… we’re joining Potter’s gang?”

“No. I don’t think so.” _Pink skin, covered with freckles…_ “You just want to ogle Goldstein, anyway,” Pansy murmurs with something like her usual swagger.

And both girls dissolve into a storm of giggles that momentarily wakes Claudine Parkinson from her stupor downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image at the top of this chapter is adapted from TBranch, detail from “Alone with my Thoughts” and used with permission.


	7. Night Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sound disturbs Hermione, wakes her from a dream that dissipates like mist leaving only a scent of grass and…

A sound disturbs Hermione, wakes her from a dream that dissipates like mist leaving only a scent of grass and… A sound, a small sound utterly out of place in sterile Little Whinging: a furtive, scraping, rubbing sound, very quiet, like the sound of a rodent worrying at a floorboard or—

Ron gives a low groan and then his breath catches. The sound continues, its pace accelerating.

A flush passes through Hermione’s whole body as she realizes what she was hearing. _Could he really? Would he?_

Quietly and with as little wasted motion as she can manage, Hermione turns her head so that she can see the magically expanded bed that Ron and Harry share on the other side of Harry’s old room from the small camp bed that she has transfigured for herself out of the desk.

In the sulfurous, yellow streetlamp light that glows through the curtain, she sees Ron up on one elbow, his free hand working under the blanket. His face is chased with shadow, exaggerating the grimace that seems to be pinching it. It is hard to tell, but his eyes seem to be squeezed closed.

Suddenly, he bites his lip hard. His whole body goes rigid, his pelvis arches up, and he gives a low, swallowed bellow before collapsing back onto the bed, panting.

Harry’s breath, a high whistle, continues on Ron’s other side, apparently undisturbed.

Hermione lies there on her belly, pulse thrilling, body held still as she listens to Ron’s breath steady and then deepen into his signature wheezing snore.

A medicinal scent wafts across the room, sour like the ammonia that always seems to be barely perceptible in her parents’ surgery .

 _Semen_.

 _Ron’s semen._ She lies there on her belly, her own breath short and shallow.

All of the symptoms of arousal that Hermione has been trying to ignore—her erect nipples, her engorged vulva—suddenly demand her attention, and Hermione cannot think what to do. Oh, she _knows_ what to do, she’s done it too—of _course_ she knows how to masturbate. Ron would probably be _shocked_ to know just how much information the library holds on the subject.

But her body has never been quite so insistent before. And the idea of doing it, of _touching_ herself with others in the room…

With Ron in the room.

Biting her lip, she slips her hand into the plain pyjama bottoms that she is wearing. _No. Mustn’t. If Ron catches me…_

A scene unravels in her head, a magical film clip that she is able to see the whole length of all at once. In it, she lies here, masturbating—just as she is starting to do—her fingers rubbing along the length of her labia, teasing them gently as they open. In the scene, she is dressed not in grey flannel but in red silk, a negligee, and the covers are down so that she can feel the night air on her bottom, can feel her heat radiating out.

In the scene, Ron’s nostrils flare—once, twice—and his eyes snap open.

He can smell her.

He can smell her desire, her need for him. She can see him in her mind’s eye, eyes dark, skin flushed visibly even in the yellow light of the streetlamp. He kicks off the thin sheet that he is sleeping under—Harry is nowhere near, they are alone—and pushes himself up on one elbow.

He is naked.

Hermione rocks her pelvis against her hand now, and her nipples, hard as jujubes, slide inside of her top against the mattress…

The Ron in Hermione’s fantasy watches, admiring, and as he does so he begins stroking himself.

She has seen penises before—listened to Parvati and Lavender going on and on about Professor Firenze’s, which was of _course_ horse-sized, since that part of his physiognomy is equine, the silly girls, and was of _course_ always on full display, since he could hardly go about in pants and trousers after all. And she looked—scandalized but curious—when Ginny showed her some magazines that Ginny stole from her brothers over the years, magazines that mostly featured witches in the most ridiculous outfits—or parts of outfits—and the most demeaning positions. Ginny sniggered when Hermione refused to look at a series of images that purported to depict two women pleasuring each other. But in some of the pictures—and it was these to which Ginny drew Hermione’s attention—there was a man with one of the women, and he was fully erect and huge and entered the witch’s body in ways that made Hermione’s own feel exceedingly odd. Hermione doesn’t remember giggling with Ginny in quite so girly a fashion before or since.

She has also seen Ron’s penis, once. He doesn’t know this, and Hermione would rather die than tell him, but at the end of last summer, when Hermione was staying with Harry at the Burrow, they had all been playing Quidditch—Hermione abysmally, of course—and after the game was over, Ginny suggested that they all jump into the pond—but Hermione didn’t think that was a good idea, and Harry and Ron quickly agreed with her. Ginny rolled her eyes and said they were all being silly, and Ron stared at Hermione, as if he were begging her—to stay? to leave?—while Harry blushed vermillion and seemed to have become obsessed with Ginny’s feet. In the end, Ginny admitted defeat and dragged Hermione back to the house, where they took turns in the shower. The boys decided to go swimming after all, however, and as Hermione waited for Ginny to come back from the shower, she looked out the window—just passing the time—as Ron climbed out of the pond. Hermione’s vision is quite good, and even at that distance, and even though Ron was wearing his boxers, they were soaked through from swimming and she could see his penis as clear as day through the thin cotton. She could even see the hint of the familiar red of the hair above.

His penis is _long_. Like his hands. And his nose. And that was when it wasn’t erect.

Experimentally, Hermione slips a finger into her vagina; the muscles fight, but the pressure feels…

In her imagination, Ron sits up, still stroking his enormous erection—not as _thick_ as those awful pictures, but _oh…_ That sincere, open look on his face can’t mask his desire as he approaches her, as he kneels down beside her. He smiles; she smiles back, arching up, showing him how he makes her feel, what he makes her do.

Hermione’s finger is in almost to the second knuckle, her hymen stretching, and she can feel her muscles closing around it, not fighting now, but _squeezing_ , and her thumb drags jerkily across her clitoris…

Without a word, the Ron in her mind leans forward—eyes unclouded, none of the guardedness that has been there so often of late—and he kisses her. He captures between his own the lip that she is biting.

She and Ron have never kissed. How can they have never kissed? His lips are smooth and warm and their heat flows through and over her and it is all perfect--every sense thrills to his presence. Taste. He tastes of Ron. Teeth find her flesh—his teeth or hers?—and bring the blood to her skin. Wet and slick, his tongue parts her lips and a frisson of fullness passes through Hermione and he is on her and against her and around her and within her, only their mouths touching, but it is as if each molecule in her body has found its perfect valence bond in his, and suddenly a flash of heat flows outward, pulsing and brilliant, and they both moan, and the scent of their desire floods the room like an ocean…

With a gasp, Hermione collapses, her pelvis falling to the mattress. Her body releases, all tension, all worry gone. _Oh, my._   
Gingerly, she removes her finger and her hand and lies there flat on her belly.

 _Clean up_ , an impulse insists, but she stills it for once, diving contentedly into the peace of sleep, knowing her dreams will be pleasant and quiet. _Let him smell_ , she tells her nattering little super-ego. _Let him smell what he does to me_.

As she surrenders herself to slumber, breathing demurely, a long nose flares just five feet away across the cramped room. White teeth bite thin lips. Long fingers move beneath a still-moist pair of boxers, and Ron unleashes a low moan—three-quarters curse, one-quarter pleasure—as his fingers close around a cock that is insistent once again, as her scent and his own desires wake him once again, and he whimpers, pursued by his succubae, and pursuing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image at the top of this chapter is adapted from Reallycorking, detail from “Ménage à Trois," and used with permission.


	8. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t let them distract you with their answers, Luna’s father said...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mostly gen, but with Remus/Tonks, Bill/Fleur, Harry/Ginny and unrequited Luna/Harry and Luna/Ginny overtones. Logic!Luna.

_Don’t let them distract you with their answers,_ Luna’s father said—said a number of times, actually— _keep asking your questions_.

Which Luna thinks makes a certain kind of sense. The problem of course is that the answers are more interesting to her than her questions. She already _knows_ the questions. And the people themselves are infinitely more interesting than either questions or answers.

A case in point:

She is interviewing Auror Tonks at the Burrow. She has placed herself between Tonks—Luna cannot imagine why she refuses to go by so lovely a name as Nymphadora—and the bright window, so that Tonks cannot focus on Luna. She is forced to focus on the questions.

_How did you happen to be at Hogwarts on the night of 3 rd June?_

_What is your involvement in the Order of the Phoenix?_

_Is the Ministry aware of your activities on 3 rd June?_

_Have you been mistreated in any way because of your participation in the activities of 3 rd June?_

_When you attended Professor Dumbledore’s memorial, did you notice that Minister Scrimgeour arrived late and left quickly? Did you notice any other evidence that this was in fact a Polyjuiced stand-in, attempting to perpetuate the cover-up of the Minister’s suspected vampirism?_

But as Luna poses these questions, she finds that what she is focusing on herself isn’t the questions—only some of which she finds interesting. Rather, she is fascinated by the way that Auror Tonks’s hair color slowly shifts, the way that a river shifts color with a passing cloud or a shift of wind. As Tonks jovially sidesteps most of Luna’s journalistic thrusts, the hue is slowly migrating from dusty rose to a pale pink like the color of a Humdinger’s tongue.

Then, quite suddenly, as Luna is beginning to ask about attempts to subvert Tonks into the Rotfang Conspiracy, the Auror’s hair turns Ashwinder-egg fuschia, her face flushes and her eyes brighten as she stares out of the window over Luna’s shoulder.

The door opens and Tonks springs up, moving across the floor in a manner more quick and fluid than Luna would have anticipated, having watched Tonks with some interest over the course of the previous year as she helped guard Hogwarts. Then again, Luna would not have known that Tonks was a Metamorphmagus if Ginny had not told her; the Auror hardly seemed to inhabit her body through most of last year, let alone manage to transfigure it.

Tonks shoves at the chest of a surprisingly unsurprised Professor Lupin, and then grasps his wrists and pulls his arms over his head, pressing her body against his, her mouth against his.

“There, there, Nymphadora,” tuts Mrs. Weasley from the sink. She smiles as she disapproves, however, which also surprises Luna. Ginny’s mother usually saves that particular combination of effects for the twins, or occasionally for Harry.

“Yes, Tonks,” says Professor Lupin mildly once Tonks has partially released him. “One might think I had been gone far longer than three hours.”

“Telling me you didn’t miss me, then?” Tonks pouts.

“Hardly,” Professor Lupin says, and kisses her rather less than mildly.

Mrs. Weasley looks away. Luna does not.

Does he mean that he hardly missed her, or that he can hardly _tell her_ that he missed her? Luna knows that Tonks and Professor Lupin have formed some sort of romantic bond or pact; she was present in the Hospital Wing on the night of the attack when Tonks made her uncharacteristic declaration. Luna would hardly be shocked to learn that they have become sexually intimate, even before seeing them today. What she does not understand is just why watching the two adults kiss— _‘Snog,’_ thinks Luna, _that’s what Ginny would call this, though how it differs from merely kissing, I’m not sure that I could say_ —makes her middle feel odd, like a warm, runny blancmange.

“How are you, Miss Lovegood?” Professor Lupin asks, his voice rather more animated than usual as he breaks into Luna’s thoughts.

“Oh, quite well, thank you, Professor Lupin.”

“I do wish I could get you young people to stop calling me that. It makes me feel quite old,” he says with a smile. Tonks has not yet let him go, but he does not seem to mind.

 _Can she change herself to look like a werewolf during the full moon?_ Luna wonders.

“Are the children well, Remus?” Mrs. Weasley asks.

“Quite,” he answers, kissing Tonks once more atop the still-fuschia head. “Ron looks as if he might have grown even taller, Hermione is a bit pensive, but steadfastly reading through every book that I can bring her, and Harry’s lessons are going well.”

Mrs. Weasley sighs. “That boy of mine—I swear I may have to start borrowing clothes from Hagrid soon enough. You look peaked, Remus.”

“A bit of a headache. Something to drink would do the trick, I think.”

Mrs. Weasley beams. “Some hot chocolate, perhaps.” 

“Ah, yes—just the ticket. Thank you. Harry is growing like a weed as well,” Professor Lupin says with a wry smile. “So, Miss Lovegood, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Tonks smiles. “She’s doing interviews for an article for her dad’s, er, magazine. About… _that_ night.”

“Ah,” says the werewolf, his smile dimming only slightly. “Yes, Mercury.”

“If you’re teaching Harry,” Luna muses, “perhaps it’s still most appropriate for us to call you by your title.”

He sighs, nodding slightly. “If you wish.”

“May I know what lessons you are teaching Harry, Professor?” Luna asks.

His mild smile turns to a frown. “I’m afraid not, Miss Lovegood. It is Harry’s secret to tell.”

Luna considers this gravely.

“If it’s any consolation, Luna,” says Tonks, “he won’t tell any of us either.”

Luna wonders just what it is that Harry could be studying. Nonetheless, it is Harry’s secret… “Professor, I was just asking Tonks about the progress of the Rotfang—”

The hearth belches green flame, and Luna turns quickly to see a redheaded man with a scarred face stepping out of the Floo.

“Bill!” cries Mrs. Weasley running to her eldest son and wrapping him in a rather energetic hug.

“Merlin, Mum!” Bilius splutters, clearing his mouth of ash and his mother’s hair. “I only left this morning!”

“But I was worried, dear—you’re still weak…”

“Strong enough,” grumbles Ron and Ginny’s eldest brother.

“You’re Bilius Weasley. You’re the one who’s getting married,” Luna says. _Comment s’appelle-t-elle? Flaque? Flambée?_

“Er, yeah,” Bilius says, prying himself from his mother’s grasp. “Bill, please. Otherwise it sounds like an intestinal problem. And I know you, don’t I? Ginny’s friend?”

“I’m Luna Lovegood.”

He flashes the odd grin that people often get when Luna tells them who she is. Notoriety is nice, Luna supposes, but she sometimes sympathizes with Harry, wishing that she and her father and his newspaper were somewhat less widely known among British wizards. That motivates their frequent holidays in Scandinavia as much as the desire to track down the elusive Swedish herd of Snorkacks.

“If it weren’t for Luna,” Tonks says, her hair now settled back to Humdinger-tongue pink, “Ron and Ginny would have bought it at the Ministry last year.”

“Oh,” Bill says. “That was _you_. Well, it’s a pleasure.” He extends his hand.

His smile reminds Luna of Ginny’s, and so of course she cannot help but smile back and take his hand. “Yes,” she says, “it is.”

This provokes laughter from all of the adults, though for what reason, Luna is entirely at a loss.

“Here you go,” Molly Weasley says, serving up mugs of chocolate to Bill and to Professor Lupin, who still looks pale. ( _Headache. Pale._ )“So, you got her safely there, Bill?”

Bill suddenly looks quite a bit like Ronald: one part worried about whatever it is that Ronald worries about, one part pleased with himself and one part obsessed with Hermione Granger. Only in Bilius’s case Luna presumes that it is not Hermione but his fiancée that provides the point of obsession. ( _Flippotte? Flange?_ ) “Yeah,” Bill says. “I wish she’d stayed in England.”

“A girl wants to be with her family before a wedding,” Mrs. Weasley states, giving her eldest a pat on the marked cheek.

“But a _month_? And a half?” Bill sighs.

“You’ll live, Billy,” Tonks says with a smirk, taking a sip from Professor Lupin’s chocolate.

“Easy for you to say,” Bill grumbles back, and lifts his own mug to his lips. He and Tonks are sharing some unspoken joke, but it doesn’t seem to be a very funny one, since neither laugh.

“Oh, speaking of gone for a month—I have letters from our young friends in Surrey.” Professor Lupin draws a sheaf of papers from his robes. “A letter from Ron for you, Molly. And one for Ginny from… Hermione.”

The room gets very quiet for a moment, and Luna wonders why. It isn’t as if Hermione would need to write Ron or Harry—who is she more likely to write at the Burrow other than Ginny? “I’ll take that up to her,” she offers.

“Thank you, Luna,” Professor Lupin murmurs, handing over not one but two envelopes. “There’s one there for you too, from Harry.”

“From… Harry?” She takes the letters and sees that the one on the top has her name on it in blocky writing: _To Luna Lovegood_. From Harry. She has never gotten a letter from him. Really, she has never gotten a letter from anyone other than Ginny, Neville, the fourth year Ravenclaw, Artemisia Jones, who is rather obsessed with the monthly Crypto-Quibbligram, and, last summer, a party invitation from Terry Boot that arrived two days after the party. “Thank you,” Luna says.

“You’re welcome,” answers Professor Lupin. “Ron thought it would be safer and faster for me to bring them, since I was coming here.”

“Yes,” says Luna, but she is turning the envelope in her hand, considering whether to open it. It interests Luna that whenever she thinks of Harry, she thinks of his scars—the one on his forehead, of course, and the scarred look in his eye, as if he’s spent too long around Dementors, and, in this moment, the scarred back of his writing hand, like a personal motto: _I must not tell lies_.

 **Observations:** Luna Lovegood is fidgeting. Luna Lovegood does not generally fidget. Her heart rate is somewhere around two hundred beats per minute; her hands are sweaty and shaking slightly. Luna Lovegood is turning the envelope addressed to her by Harry Potter around and around and thinking about Harry Potter’s body. It is early July. **Hypotheses** : A) Luna Lovegood is agitated. B) Luna Lovegood is sexually excited. C) Luna Lovegood is suffering from a Nargle infestation. **Inferences** : Luna Lovegood is rarely agitated. Luna Lovegood is showing none of the primary signs of sexual arousal. It is far too late for Luna Lovegood to be suffering from the effects of last winter’s Nargles and far too early for this year’s batch to have hatched out. **Deduction** : However unlikely the case, Luna Lovegood is agitated, possibly due to sexual attraction to Harry Potter, and possibly due to causes as yet undetermined. **Possible responses** : A) Ask Ginny Weasley for advice. B) Run back home. C) Read the letter.

The last seems the most efficacious course, and so she pursues it, sliding her still-shaking finger beneath the seal and opening the envelope.

The whole letter—and it is not long—is in the same square, stark print as the address. ( _I must not tell lies._ )

> _Harry Potter_
> 
> _July 2, 1997_
> 
> _Dear Luna,_
> 
> _I know I’ve never written you but I really wanted to say some things. It hasn’t been particularly safe this year and last summer I didn’t really write anyone but I wanted you to know that you are one of my very very best friends, so I’m finally writing you now. Hermione would probably say its about time. Well there you are. When you were joking on the train ride back about you know being sexually attracted at least I think you were joking anyway I realized how much you make me laugh and remind me of what Ron calls seeing the whole board. Hermione goes on and on about looking at the big picture and you make me do it without even seeming to try or anything and so even though sometimes I think you arent trying you do that and thats one of the things that makes you such a good friend so thank you.  
> _
> 
> _I hope that made sense.  
> _
> 
> _I ~~wish I~~ ~~hope I~~ hope you are well. I hope everyone there is well._
> 
> _My relatives are being relatively okay though I have to say I would much rather be spending the whole summer there. Hermione and Ron are great though they spend a ridiculously huge amount of time not looking at each other if you know what I mean. I am always studying with Remus. I think Im really wearing him out—it certainly wears me out—but what hes teaching me is really helpful though I wish I had a pensieve because by the time Im done my head is so full! You dont have one do you? (That was a joke.)_
> 
> _I think its really great that youre writing an article for The Quibbler. Hermione Ron and I all would be really happy to talk to you._
> 
> _We will be coming right at the end of the month. Please tell everyone there ~~I we~~ I really miss them._
> 
> _Harry_
> 
> _PS One thing for your article that no one ever seems to know but I thought you might possibly find interesting—Voldemort is a halfblood. His father was a muggle named Tom Riddle and his mother was a witch named Merope Gaunt who used Amortentia to make him love her. Voldemort is really named Tom Riddle too—Tom Marvolo Riddle because Marvolo was Merope’s father’s name. They lived in a town called Little Hangleton—the place where he took me and Cedric two years ago._
> 
> _Tom M. Riddle was a Slytherin Head Boy a couple of years ahead of Hagrid, during the war against Grindelwald. I think its amazingly funny that the Death Eaters are so crazy about blood purity when hes a halfblood just like me._
> 
> _PPS Tell everyone I really really miss them._

Putting the letter down with a somewhat steadier hand, Luna considers several things. First, Harry Potter is clearly no friend of punctuation marks but does seem inordinately fond of adverbs. Luna has no problem with this last, since it is a fault of which Luna knows herself to be guilty.

Second, he said that Luna is one of his very, very best friends, which shocked Luna rather more than she thinks that it should, and has managed to leave her feeling both more and less agitated than she had been before. Some of the indications lean more towards sexual arousal than simple agitation now.

( _Pale. Headache._ )

Luna is also uncertain why he was so insistent that she tell _everyone_ that he really, really misses them, but does not consider it her place to judge. “Harry says he really, really misses _everyone_ ,” she calls to the room at large. The room at large nod and say things along the lines of “Oh, how nice,” or “Uh-huh,” or “I just bet.”

And the post-script… “Did you know that You-Know-Who is actually a half-blood wizard named Tom Riddle?”

The room falls silent.

Professor Lupin switches seats with Tonks, who has been chatting with Bill—apparently they were at school together—and, when conversation starts up again, he says quietly, “Yes, as a matter of fact I did know that, though not many do.”

“Oh. Perhaps we shouldn't call him You-Know-Who then, since not many people seem actually to know who he is,” she muses. “It seems as if that would be likely to lead to confusion.” ( _Pale. Headache. Pensieve._ )

“Perhaps you are right, Luna,” he says with his wry smile. “I had forgotten how astonishing your observations could be.”

“You mean how odd.”

“No,” he says steadily. “No, that’s not what I mean at all. You astonish continually, but all of your observations seem perfectly sensible—if one has the insight and intelligence to follow them.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Luna does not blush as a rule, but feels that she might be getting close.

 **Observations:** Pale. Headache. Pensieve. Scar. Harry complaining on the train to London of his lack of skill at Occlumency. “Professor, are you teaching Harry Legilimency?”

Professor Lupin chokes on his chocolate. Tonks pats him on the back. “Okay, Moony?”

“Yes,” he coughs. “Luna simply proved in her own inimitable fashion a point that I’d just been trying to make.”

Tonks winks at Luna; Luna smiles back.

“Luna,” says Lupin, “please don’t share that hypothesis.”

“Of course not, Professor.”

Molly Weasley bustles over. “Can I get you anything, Luna, dear?”

“No, Mrs. Weasley.” Luna stands. “I’m going to bring Ginny’s letter up if you don’t mind. Oh—and Harry says that they’ll be coming here around the end of the month.”

“Just in time for his coming-of-age birthday, I hope.” Molly Weasley runs her fingers through her eldest son’s hair. “Well, tell Ginny that I expect her down to help with dinner in an hour.”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” Luna says, and walks to the stairs.

Before she goes up, she turns back. It is as if there is a hum in the room, a sound that she cannot quite hear. She looks: Auror Tonks, bright, and Professor Lupin, muted, sit side by side, not saying anything, barely touching. Bilius Weasley is staring intently into his now-empty mug while his mother embraces him from behind. Luna tries to identify the source of the sound-that-isn’t, but can’t.

Ginny is lying on her bed, a book abandoned by her feet. She looks as if she has been holding a cold compress to her eyes in a not quite successful attempt to reduce the inflammation from what Luna assumes to have been a bout of tears. Ginny seems rather more prone than usual to bouts of tears. “Hey, Loony,” she says, attempting to smirk with something like her usual spirit.

“Hello,” Luna answers. “Your mother wants you to help with dinner in an hour. Did I really tell Harry that I find him sexually attractive?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you did.” Ginny gives a mock scowl, and this has something more of Ginny in it.

“Oh.” Luna sits beside her friend, and Luna has to look away so as not to be mesmerized by the myriad-colored play of her hair across her cheek and the bedding. “Would it help,” she says before she has a moment to consider, “if I told you that I find you sexually attractive too?”

Ginny moves behind Luna, sitting up. “You do?”

“Oh, yes. You are very pretty, you know. And very nice.”

“I guess. Not everyone thinks so.”

“Well, I do.”

“You said. At the Quidditch match.”

“That’s right,” Luna says. “I meant it too.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Ginny’s hand comes feather-light to rest between Luna’s shoulder blades.

The blancmange-y feeling gurgles around in Luna’s middle again, which reminds Luna of earlier. “Hermione sent you a letter,” she says, holding the envelope up.

“Thanks.” Ginny reaches over Luna’s shoulder, takes it and lies down, to the sound of tearing parchment.

The runny-pudding feeling settles somewhat, though not entirely. “And Harry says to tell _everyone_ that he misses them.”

“He does?” Luna can hear Ginny turning over the parchment of Hermione’s letter.

“Yes. In the letter he sent me.”

In the silence, Luna feels Ginny’s thigh tense against her own hip. “In the letter he sent you?”

“Yes. He was very emphatic that I tell _everyone_ that he misses them, but no one else seemed to care.”

“Oh.”

Luna can almost hear that hum starting up again.

“No,” says Ginny, “I suppose they wouldn’t.” Her leg relaxes again and she goes back to reading Hermione’s letter.

Luna stares towards Ginny’s window, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. She does not like to dance, but she likes to watch this—it reminds Luna of the sound that she did not hear in the Burrow’s kitchen earlier.

After they have sat this way for some minutes—Ginny reading, Luna watching—Ginny asks, “So… you find me sexually attractive?”

“Yes.”

“And you find Harry sexually attractive?” Luna does not look, but it sounds as if Ginny is resting her head on her arms and speaking into her elbow.

“Yes.”

“Is there anyone else you find sexually attractive?”

Luna considers this. “I found your brother Ronald attractive for a while. And George.”

“But not Fred?”

“Oh, no,” Luna says and Ginny giggles, which brings back the blancmange-y feeling for some reason. “In any case, in the end even they weren’t terribly nice.”

“No,” Ginny says rather thoughtfully. They revert to silence for a while. Then, as tends to happen, Ginny bounces up again. “Luna?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really not believe in love?”

Again, Luna considers. (Focus on the questions.) She looks down at the letter in her hand and over at Ginny, whose dragonberry-tea brown eyes are fixed on Luna. “I’m still thinking about it,” she answers at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image at the top of the chapter is by moi. ;-)


	9. Through Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon, he thinks, he will know what drew him here. In the meantime, he will consider his state. He will consider the choice to lose, and to lose again.

He preens a flight feather, a particularly fine one, and considers the barren enclosure below. The broken wall on which he sits overlooks a weed-choked space that was once a kitchen. Beneath a tree a short distance down the hill by a small stream lies a thick slab of granite. Its reddish tint glows reassuringly in the late afternoon sun. Soon, he thinks, he will know what drew him here. In the meantime, he will consider his state. He will consider the choice to lose, and to lose again.

The first called herself Agnigita, which amused them both somewhat; she called him Shiva, which amused only her. In the beginning, for some fifteen burnings or so, they remained alone in the forest above the headwaters of the Indus and considered their natures and the nature of their fates.

She argued strongly that his life echoed the circular pattern of time, the wheel that is the year; that as he is consumed and reborn in flame, as the moon is born from and returns to its own shadow, as the serpent sheds its skin, as the seed produces the tamarind which produces the fruit, so human life is cyclical and never-ending, that the dark door of death is a mere illusion of perspective.

 _He countered as politely as he could that it was_ his _life that was an illusion—that what seemed from her perspective to be his death and rebirth was merely a movement from one stage to another in the linear journey that was his life—a linear journey towards an unknown end._

She would laugh when he argued thus, and her eyes would sparkle, and they would speak of other things for a time.

In all of this time, he never wandered from his tree. Her companionship and the clarity of her thought moved something in him that he had never suspected was there, through all of the burnings that had preceded their encounter.

As the moons waxed and waned, as the fruit ripened and fell, as her hair lightened from black to stark white, her tiny camp at the base of his tree became a small town, with acolytes and knowledge-seekers and farmers and hunters and herd-keepers and cooks and finally administrators swelling the encampment.

Agnigita accepted the new arrivals with good humor, and he did so for her sake. She told those who would and could listen tales and parables, small exercises on the themes that she and he had discussed through the long, long time.

When she died, he felt as if his chest had been opened and all of the vital organs removed. In all of his burnings, in his innumerable years, he had never suffered such a terrible feeling, and he swore he never would. Never again.

He found a sound issuing from his throat, a high, ululating sound that barely gave echo to the grief that flamed within him.

Vyasa, Agnigita’s oldest follower and chief scribe, sat at the foot of the tree for three days as the phoenix’s lament was heard for the very first time. Vyasa wept and wrote, catching in faint pen scratch the fleeting images of birth and death and rebirth and fire, of the monster Life devouring life.

When the song was done, the phoenix flew as far from his tree by the headwaters of the Indus as he could without landing. He did not travel by fire: he wished to exhaust his body, to drown out the awful, awful feeling that three days of keening had only begun to blunt.

He landed at last in a cedar tree overlooking a deep blue ocean. He stayed there solitary and undisturbed through some hundred and sixty burnings. The feeling never disappeared, but it became simply a part of him after a time, and he learned to accept it.

A gust of wind disturbs the dust in the wall slightly, and brings him a scent that tickles at his memory. It is a scent that brings to mind a cave, and a graveyard, and yet it is a pleasant scent.

He cannot identify it. It must be what has drawn him here.

One day, a long-tailed form flew out of the blue Mediterranean sky—one of his kind. A female. She called him after the fashion of their kind, and so he called her, and they nested together, joyously, in the upper branches of that ancient, scorched cedar.

After a number of dual burnings, flaming together and rehatching together and growing together, the inhabitants of a nearby human town noticed them. The phoenix wished to leave, but his mate pointed out that the humans were respectful to a fault—they never came close to the tree and the space around their nest was treated as holy ground. In their nightly flights the pair noticed that banners showing a burning phoenix marked the new city’s territory. Eventually the small city-state took their name as its own, and as it flourished, they continued to honor the nesting pair.

Through eighteen burnings the couple thrived in joy, bringing forth together two eggs—perhaps the first laid since before the first human cities’ hunger for lumber began to destroy the ancient trees that were phoenixes’ favored nesting places.

The pair nurtured the eggs through three burnings, knowing that on the fourth they would hatch. They approached the last burning with more than the usual excitement.

Yet when the day came, a Greek named Ophios approached their pristine compound. Once the parents had burned, but before the eggs could hatch, he spiked the shells with iron. The chicks died.

The phoenix rehatched to find himself alone. His mate never stirred again from her bed of ash.

This time, the phoenix’s song was terrible indeed. The Phoenicians, the people of Tyre, mourned with him. Their city fell.

But the curse of the phoenix fell upon the desecrating invaders as well; the Greeks were conquered in turn, and did not gain their freedom for another two thousand years.

The phoenix flew then and sought out solitude—it found a small western island were it howled its new triple loss and raged in flame through nearly a hundred burnings.

Three figures appear at the bottom of the hill with a barely audible pop. They are robed in black. They approach the large piece of red marble at the bottom of the hill. One of the figures approaches the marble, kneeling beside it. The other two hang back.

He felt at last as if he were truly alone—as if he might never again be forced to suffer loss. He hunted snakes and drakes and basilisks until none were left on his small island, or on the larger islands that neighbored it. It was, of course, at precisely this point that a human arrived upon his island.

She too was seeking solitude, and wisdom. And her eyes sparkled, and her hair was red as a phoenix’s tail, and for all that her skin was paler than Agnigita’s teeth had been, and the flame upon her head was hair, not feathers, she reminded him of all that he had lost.

And he found that he didn’t much mind.

Her name was Gid. She called him Lugh. She didn’t much believe in rebirth. Nor did she fear death.

When her time came, he felt loss again, but it was not a shock. He sang for her, long and slow and sad, and he can still hear the echoes of that song in the airs of the people of these islands even now.

He traveled further west, to jungle lands that reminded him of the Indus where he was known there as Quetzalcoatl, and then to beautiful deserts—drier even than ancient Tyre—where he was called Binesi.

And in each place he found wisdom, and insight, and stories about where life came from and where it went. And in each place he rediscovered loss.

But from burning to burning he learned that life mattered less than love and loyalty—he, who had lived longer than the oldest human civilization, could affirm that fact with certainty. And so he loved, and loved, and loved.

He is not sure what it was that tempted him back to the island where he and Gid had shared companionable solitude for so long. But there he was, alone on the small rock but for his memories of the Irish witch and the miserable company of an Augurey who seemed to think of nothing but rain and eating fairies, when a tall, auburn-haired wizard popped into being at the foot of their tree. The man’s blue eyes twinkled, and the phoenix knew that he was in trouble.

Albus was pleasant company in many ways. He was bright and passionate. He was far less self-centered than most humans that the phoenix encountered. He had a truly peculiar sense of humor.

And he had a sense of loyalty and justice that touched the phoenix deeply.

It almost made up for the fact that Albus dubbed him Fawkes.

The kneeling figure beneath the tree stands, and the other two approach it. There is something familiar about the one that’s just stood.

Over the course of more than twenty burnings—longer than he spent with any human since Agnigita—the phoenix made the wizard’s loves and battles his own. Through all of the ages, and especially after the death of his mate, he watched humanity’s wars from a distance. And yet, caught up in Albus’s struggle against what both man and phoenix perceived to be true evil, and remembering the face of evil in the Greek who had destroyed his progeny, he fought at his companion’s side against three Dark Lords and a host of dark creatures, from Lethifolds to vampires to Inferi. On one memorable occasion, he blinded and bloodied the largest Basilisk that either he or Albus ever heard tell of—all to help to save a girl and a boy…

The center figure—the one that had been kneeling—begins to walk toward the shattered house. The phoenix knows that figure: he smells of this place and it smells of him.

The other figures resolve themselves into familiarity as well—a girl who visited the Headmaster’s office on several occasions. A boy with hair the exact shade of Gid’s, and of the girl in the cave. The shade of his mate’s tail.

They approach the ruined house timidly. They are looking down, not at the phoenix. As they approach the building, he trills to them.

Green eyes flash up. They are not flickering, but they are aflame—cool, green flame—and the phoenix knows that he is in trouble again.   
  
_Hello, Harry Potter_ , he sings.

The green eyes widen. _Hello, Fawkes._

The phoenix cannot hide his surprise. _You have learned to listen._

“A bit,” Harry says aloud, and the phoenix gets an image of the werewolf, Lupin. “I’m still not very good, though.”

_Yet you hear me._

“I…” The boy shifts as the two who stand at either of his shoulders raise their eyebrows.

“Harry?” says the girl.

“I…. He’s… talking to me,” says Harry.“With Legilimency.”

 _Through_ your _Legilimency_.

“Great,” mutters the boy with hair like flame. “First snakes and now birds.”

Harry laughs, but it is mirthless laughter. _I’m sorry, Fawkes… About Dumbledore._

 _It was his time_ , sings the phoenix sadly. _All have their time. In all of my burnings I have seen many come and go, and yet the only wisdom that I have ever gleaned is that when it is time for the last ember to cool, it is time. There is nothing that you or I or anyone else can do about it. Albus knew that it was his time. He did not fear it._

“He…?” Harry gapes. _He **knew**?_

 _How could he not?_ Perplexed, the phoenix considers Harry. _Did you not look into his bowl of memories?_

 _His bowl of memories?_ The boy blinks, and then he sees it in Harry’s mind’s eye: a stone bowl swirling with memories. “His Pensieve!”

_He left many memories for you there._

Harry blinks again.

The girl puts her hand on his shoulder. “Whose Pensieve, Harry?”

“Albus’s—Dumbledore’s. He…” The boy flicks his head up at the phoenix. “He says that Dumbledore left memories in his Pensieve.”

 _For you, Harry_.

Harry nods.

“Bloody hell,” murmurs the redhead. “That would be—”

“—amazingly useful,” finishes the girl.

 _Minerva will give it to you_ , warbles the phoenix.

Green eyes look up again. _I don’t know if I can look at his memories._

_You can. You will._

_How can you stand it?_ Harry thinks, and his mind strikes a keening note that the phoenix knows all too well. _I mean, how can you just… go on? I’ve lost so many…_ He glances back down at the marble slab at the bottom of the hill.

 _I too have lost many, more than you can possibly imagine, Harry, and I have mourned each and every one,_ the phoenix sings, and it opens its mind to the boy. As he feels Harry flashing through millennia of memories, through all of his losses, the phoenix looks at the boy’s mind—at his spirit. There is strength here, and a sense of right and of loyalty as deep as Albus’s. Not, perhaps, the mad sense of humor, but that is to be expected. The phoenix cannot help but see a sea of faces in the boy’s mind: the two who accompany him; a family with hair to match the redhead, and at their center a girl who flames in the boy’s memory; the half-giant of whom Albus was always so fond, and Albus himself; the boy’s parents, who lie beneath the marble below; the werewolf and his friend; a blonde girl with eyes like moonlight—the one who liked to quote Agnigita’s sayings when she spoke with Albus—and a round-faced, brown-haired boy; and many, many more. Towards all and each, Harry projects a stream of feeling as intense as any that the phoenix has ever seen. _I have mourned and mourned,_ the phoenix trills, _and yet life is to be lived. Now is not the time for mourning. For some, the path to Paradise leads through fire._

When Harry reaches the end—when he relives the phoenix’s memory of flying away from the tree at the headwaters of the Indus—the boy lets out a groan.

At his side, the redhead moves to hold Harry up, and the girl cries out, “Fawkes! Fawkes! What are you doing to him?”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry sobs. “He was just telling me… showing me his past.” The boy shakes his head. “He’s been around for… for over fourteen thousand years.It’s a bit… overwhelming."

_The girl certainly looks overwhelmed._

Harry laughs moistly at this, which the phoenix takes to be a good sign. The boy smiles up at the phoenix and says, “And his name isn’t really Fawkes. That was just Albus—Dumbledore’s nickname for him.”

“Well,” says the girl, still looking a bit nervous—perhaps at the thought of her friend conversing with a creature who has survived through two thousand burnings and more, and possibly because Harry does not seem the type to sob—“what should we call him then?”

Harry takes off his round spectacles and squints up, the flame in his eyes even more evident. The phoenix feels the boy’s mind touch his own once again. “I… The thing that comes to my mind… I think his name is Firesong,” Harry murmurs.

 _That will do quite nicely_ , trumpets the phoenix, and ruffles his feathers with pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter is a Palekh box, “Иван и Жар-птица” (Ivan and the Firebird)


	10. Hound and Hynde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They may or may not love other people. And they may or may not even like each other. They don't do words well. But there are other things that they do fabulously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening of this piece was written for metafrantic's wonderful, quixotic all-pairings drabble challenge, 10k_drabbles. 
> 
> Warnings: Angst. Hetsex. Really. Lots. In several flavors. A less than fully functional relationship, but hey, as an old acting teacher of mine said, "Good marriages make bad theater!" ;-)
> 
> Thanks again to my beta, aberforths_rug, and to metafrantic for some comparative feedback! ;-)

“What the fuck are we doing?” Ron gasps.

Her mouth releasing him with a loud _plop_ , Pansy sneers her best Parkinson sneer. “If you have to bloody ask-” she grumbles up from between his thighs.

He shakes his head, touching her hair tentatively. “No, that's not-”

She swats his hand away. “No? Then what the fuck is it?” When he doesn't answer immediately, she pushes back and begins pulling her chemise down again.

“No, Pansy…” He grabs her arms. “I like this, really, but… Why me?”

She peers up at him, swallowing a retort, staring up into those shuttered blue eyes. “Your cock is fucking fabulous.”

It gratifies her to watch the red wash out the freckles. Gratifies enough that she leans forward once again, parts her lips, and takes the fabulous head of that fabulous cock into her mouth again.

This time, the idiot is smart enough simply to release her arms and moan.

Blaise's cock, despite his reputation, isn't terribly long, and silly idiot doesn't know what to _do_ with the thing-he seems to be under the impression that looking good is enough. He does look good, certainly, the color of aged mahogany or-Pansy's favorite-poisonously dark chocolate. But no-her dalliances last year with Blaise were never exciting enough to make the risk worthwhile. Montague, after the incident with the Dobbs bint fifth year… He was largish, but never got really hard, so sucking his cock was like taking an uncooked banger in her mouth. At least he didn't last terribly long.

Even so, he wasn't quite as spectacularly quick as her one previous interhouse fling, Smith. She tried twice with him that afternoon-they were both fantastically high; he was Blaise's source, apparently-and both times he spurted the second her lips touched him. Pathetic.

Draco… Well, she rather likes _his_ cock; it's one she knows quite well, in all of its moods. She likes the way that she can tease him through it…

But there is something _sharp_ about his cock, as about him. Sharp and separate-it is always _his_ , and no matter how she tries, no matter what she does, he always keeps himself for himself, and it breaks her every time; she feels as if she's failed.

But this… It is larger than Draco's, that is true, and hard as dragon horn, but Pansy knows that-at least while they are here, in this tatty little room in this poncy little inn in Kent of all places (why in Merlin's name had she told him to meet her in Canterbury?)-this cock is hers, that touching him and sucking him and fucking him opens Ron Weasley to her in a way that none of their adventures ever quite did with Draco.

Why she would _want_ Ron Weasley to be open to her is a separate question entirely.

He groans again, fists in her hair, and she can taste the first sour splash of passion spilling on her tongue. “Stop,” he hisses, holding her head still.

Never one to disobey a direct order, she stops there with the thick heat of him almost to her tonsils. She can feel his cock straining to thrust, and so, perversely, she remains motionless. He leans over her; her whole world is Weasley now-no sight but his flaming pubes, no sound but his thundering heartbeat and his moans, no feeling but that cock filling her mouth, the smell of his sweat and the musty taste of him…

Huge hands grasp her hips, pulling her up onto the bed, parallel to him, but with her pelvis at his shoulders. She gasps, her voice muffled by a throat-full of shifting, rigid penis; strong fingers stroke gently up her thighs, find her crotch and tear her finest Elf-made lace knickers open. Before she can eject enough of his cock from her mouth to scream at him for mistreating beautiful lingerie, his shaggy head slides between her thighs, his mouth finds her cunt, and any thought of punishing the boy goes right out of her head.

Leave it to Weasley to teach _Pansy_ something new…

Well, not _new_ , not precisely. Draco licked at her a few times, and it was nice, but he certainly didn't much like it, and so that was that, of course. He hasn't even had it in him to _fuck_ her since November-just Pansy on her knees with a hand in her knickers. When he came, it softened him a bit sometimes; he would hold her and let her bury herself in his hard-edged Draco-ness for a little while before he began to fidget and her moment was gone. _Off buggering some…_

There was a mission; he did lead the Death Eaters into the castle and they did kill the headmaster. He was withdrawn, the poor idiot. He was frightened.

With reason. The mad-as-a-hatter Dark Lord is apparently rewarding Draco's success by debasing him-it terrifies Pansy to think of it. She has heard enough stories to guess what that might look like, and she knows Draco well enough to know that pain, humiliation and torture are not things he is suited to. And…

 _OHHHHH…_ Two long fingers thrust in as Ron's tongue dances astonishing tarantellas against her clit-Merlin, _everything_ about this boy is long-and she can feel heat and tension build up in her as she tries to focus on devouring the cock before her so as not to scare off the terrifying orgasm that she feels soaring up her spinal cord.

Stars and flame and moisture. In Arithmancy, that old battleaxe Vector talked about magical conduits-elements that help magic flow between two sources, like the unicorn hair in her wand. This is like that-two pools of magic pouring together through them, mouth to genitals to mouth to…

Fucking Morgana-they even manage to come together. _Fuck._

“ _Foûtre_!” Pansy pants once she has managed to clear her mouth of cock and cum.

Low laughter rumbles through Weasley, his bollocks bouncing against her chin. “My brother's fiancée says that a lot,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Thinks we don't know what it means.”

“ _Do_ you know what it means?”

He scoots around, and she can feel that his cock against her thigh isn't altogether soft; she has to stifle a moan at the thought of another round… “Yeah,” he says, suddenly leaning over her. “I know.”

Her mouth is open and stupid and she discovers that she has three choices: to close it, to kiss him, or to make a catty remark. She _wants_ to do one of the first two, but she is who she is. “Still wondering what we're doing here, then?”

“Dunno,” he says, his face above hers. _So close._ “Not what, but you know, why.”

His eyes have that deep, pained look in them that seems to fill her with a bizarre combination of power and discomfort. “ _Why_?” she snorts. “Well, if you've got anything _better_ to do, Weasley… I mean, if you'd rather be off banging the Mudbl-”

Suddenly, his hands are on her wrists and that pained look has shifted chimerically from conscience-cursed to furious. “Don't talk about Hermione.”

“No?” She fights beneath him and is disgusted with both of them that his cock is hardening and her cunt is opening to it. “Going to stop me? Going to keep me from letting her know she should get herself checked, that her Galahad might be passing her some dread Slytherin disease?”

“ _FUCK YOU_!” he bellows, so close that she can smell her cunt on his breath, and Pansy suddenly remembers that she is beneath six feet and three inches of angry Gryffindor in a poncy room in a tatty inn in bloody Canterbury and no one knows she's here and her wand is on the dresser and she feels very, very small. His fingers squeeze her wrists, but his face has shifted back to sadness; he's not closed off to her, no, but he has that vacuous look of incredulous disappointment on his face, as if someone's hexed his widgy off and he isn't sure why. ( _But his widgy is still there, definitely-stiff, still moist with her spit and inches away…_ ) “She's got nothing to worry about, any way.”

“No?” she says, far more breathily than she would like. “Not putting out, is she?”

“Getting any from Malfoy, Parkinson?” he snarls.

A thick weight settles in her stomach. Why I came... “No.”

“Well then…” He shifts, trying to move his erection further from her cunt, but she throws her legs over his thighs and holds him close. “She'd never… We never…”

Pansy can't keep the shock from showing on her face. “ _Never?_ ”

Again, the pained pout, and Pansy laughs. “Merlin, Weasley, that's _pathetic_. I mean, you must have learned this from _someone_ , right? Big Breasts Brown, then? But I would have thought… Poor bloody Granger, she doesn't know what she's-”

“ _Don't talk about Hermione_ ,” he grunts, pressing down against her, and the head of his cock splits her labia, and they both gasp. “Please…”

It's all so ridiculous and it feels _so_ good, him two inches in and it's been weeks, but she can't stop herself from giggling. “You _are_ a bloody Galahad, aren't you? Don't think you're _worth_ her, that it?” She pulls hard with her legs and is rewarded with another two inches. His face bears a bewildered grimace. “Not worth her so you come to me, come to your Slytherin _whore_?”

He bellows again, but not in rage-not purely in rage-and thrusts further in. “Not. Not. A whore.” He pushes the rest of the way in and the pressure squeezes all of the air out of her.

When her breath returns, she finds that she is laughing. “No? No? Not a whore? You remember the joke? About the French wizard? His whore, his mistress, his wife? 'Beige… I think I'll do the ceiling in _beige'-!_ ”

He pulls out and slams back into her and they both howl. He pulls her legs up around his hips and starts to fuck her hard-fabulously, wondrously, miraculously, magically hard. “Don't… do words. Well. Do we?”

“No,” she agrees, thinking of six years of barbs and insults thrown either way. _But we do other things really, really well_.

This is the first chance they've had for a second go-the first time they've had any privacy or time, not to mention a bed-and they take full advantage of the opportunity. As they fuck, their clothes disappear almost magically-almost; she'll have some repairing to do- and Pansy knows that forever in her mind ecstasy will be connected with the image of a sweaty, freckled neck and flaming, sweat-slick red hair.

As he plows her (furrowing open my fertile field) his cock finds a place inside of her that she did not know existed, and for the first time she finds herself coming just from being fucked-it's always felt _good,_ mind, even with Limp Biscuit Montague or sitting atop pretty, pretty Blaise, even when she was doing all of the work, but _MERLIN_ ….

She howls, and he doesn't slow down; he keeps plowing, and then, without missing a beat, he pulls out, flips her onto her belly and thrusts back into her cunt again, _MERLIN,_ his hand snaking down, long fingers finding her clit as they fuck, more fingers finding tender tits- _how many hands does the boy…?-_ Draco liked this, but mostly not to look at Pansy's breasts, she thought, but now he is slamming into her, his hips slapping against her arse, and her hands are pushing up against the headboard so that he doesn't drive her through the wall and he lets out a _SOUND_ ….

 _Merlin_.

Still inside, he collapses on her, and they roll to the side and curl together, wet, wet, wet, and she is weeping.

He holds her-arm on belly, arm on breast, sweaty belly to heaving back-as she cries.

He is still inside of her.

She feels as if she's made of water.

At last, the tears slow, and her breath comes only somewhat shakily.

He kisses her neck, just below the ear. They've never kissed. ( _How can we never have kissed_?) “'S why I'm here. This.”

She laughs damply, and his cock finally slips out. “Merlin, Weasley. Most boys would run from a crying girl like the plague.”

“It's... human. Makes you human. Makes me feel human.”   
  
He pulls her tight again, and she can feel that the tears might return at any minute. “That night, when I found you…”

“In the girl's bloody loo…”

“Crying. Dumbledore. Everything seemed so unreal. Everything seemed dead. And then you… I wanted to help you.”

Again she laughs. “Yes, you certainly helped. Some bloody Galahad _you_ are.”

“Not bloody Galahad,” he grumbles. She can feel his breath under her ear, can feel that fabulous cock, soft and slick, slipping between the cheeks of her fat arse. “Never Galahad.”

“No?” she asks. “I suppose not. The whole purity-and-chastity thing doesn't seem like you. Who then? Percival the Fool?”

A grunt blows warm air across her cheek; she shivers. “Maybe. I always wanted to be Gawain.”

“The Ladies' Knight.”

“Yeah.”

“I can see that,” she says, thinking, _Merlin, I've just complimented Weasley_.

“Yeah, well, you're not looking at me.”

She laughs again, and her bum bounces against him. His cock twitches; she can feel it start to thicken again. Astonishing. “I don't exactly _hate_ the way you look,” she says, her voice a little higher than she'd choose.

“Ta, very much.” He kisses her neck again. “I don't exactly hate the way you look either.”

“You said I looked as if I'd been smacked in the face with a shovel.”

“That was second year, and you'd just hexed…”

“Granger. I'd just hexed Granger.”

“Yeah.”

She can feel him against her back, uncertain and ambivalent as she is herself, and she realizes that just as Weasley is open to her, she is open to him, and it's rather terrifying. Taking a deep breath, she reaches back and squeezes his bum; his semi-erection jumps between her cheeks again. “So. Who would I be? Morgana Le Fey?”

“What? You going to sleep with your brother?”

“Oh, no,” she says, her mouth moving faster than her brain, “I thought that was a Weasley hobby.” She feels him stiffen, and not in arousal. “Teasing. I'm just winding you up.”

“Nice bloody tease,” he grumbles; he gives her nipple a rough tweak and _she_ stiffens-partly in arousal. Her buttocks squeeze his cock and he moans. ( _Bloody hell, he's almost hard again_.) They lie there together, silent, until Pansy is convinced he's forgotten anything but the heat between their bodies, when he whispers, “You're not Morgana. You're… Lancelot.”

“ _What_?” She twists as much as he will let her; she can just see one eye, somber but unguarded.

“You're bloody Lancelot.”

She laughs, “A Slytherin Lancelot! That's a hoot! So you'd be…?”

“Guinevere. I'm fucking Guinevere.” He pulls her back against him and she lets him, stunned as she is.

“Stupid bloody Gryffindor,” she manages to mumble finally. She flexes her buttocks-partially to get him out of the mood and get him into the mood, and partially to distract herself and work up courage.

He hisses, beginning to press up along the valley between her cheeks.

Why I came... “Weasley,” she murmurs, before they get carried away again-before she loses the nerve again-“Ron. I don't mind. Being your whore.”

He makes another noise, low and dismissive, but he continues to move against her.

“Ron, I have something… I want your help. I mean, I want something.” (Babbling. You're fucking babbling. Snap out of it, Pansy. You don't babble!) “I mean, I want the sex because it's absolutely bloody fantastic, Merlin, but Ron…”

His massive paw pushes her pelvis back, forcing her to still it. “What do you want?”

“I…” When she thought of this, before she came here-when she could clear her mind of the image of his mouth on her breasts and his cock between her legs-she intended to be very much the femme fatale, leading him on, reeling him in, turning him to goo, but she's the one who's goo now. She needs him, needs to feel him. But she has something else that she needs. “I want you to help me get Draco back.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly Pansy feels not at all like a femme fatale; she feels very much like a silly, pug-nosed little girl, trying on her mum's clothes and playing with toys she isn't ready for. “I… He's a bloody idiot, I know, but the Dark Lord has him now, and the Dark bloody Lord is insane, he's absolutely mad-he's going to destroy all of us purebloods, he's going to kill us all-”

“Just bloody figuring that out, are you?”

“As it happens, yes.”

He is motionless against her back, but she can feel his heart thudding, can feel his still-hard cock against her bum and up her spine. “Have you seen him?”

“Draco?”

He nods against her neck.

“No, I haven't heard from him or seen him since that night. But… I've heard things, and nobody…”

His voice comes from so close that she jumps within his grasp: “Do you love him?”

“How…? I don't know. I think so, maybe.” She's never admitted that to anyone, not even to Draco-her love or her uncertainty. “You? Do you love her?”

He takes a sharp breath in and she's afraid that she's once again said something stupid. “Dunno,” he mutters, very quietly. “I think so. Maybe.”

She reaches back and strokes his flank again. “I… Ron. I can… I can tell you things. I mean, I know you don't care, but I can tell you things that might help you and Potter.”

He remains tense and silent against her, like a drawn bow.

“Their headquarters is at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. They're all there. Draco's being paraded around like a bloody animal in his own house. And the Dark Lord has all of them searching, Ollivander didn't… There was a wand at Ollivander's that the Dark Lord wanted, only it wasn't there, and now-”

“Okay,” he says, and he reaches down and takes her hand. “Okay. I'll try to get them to help get… Draco back.”

The shock and relief are so overwhelming that it feels as if Ron has just punched her in the stomach rather than gently squeezed her fingers.

“We'll have to come up with some sort of story, you and me. I don't think we want… them to find out about this.”

“No.”

“Pansy?” Ron says, his grip relaxing.

She finds that she is waiting for some stupid remark, some idiotic insult, for him to start pushing her away.

“I, you know... I do care.”

She pulls him around her again. “Oh.”

“And I'm sorry I said that about your face. I like your nose. I think it's pretty.” Merlin help them both-now he's complimenting her. “And you're not a whore.”

 _But you make me want to act like one_ , she thinks, or perhaps she says it out loud. And suddenly their hands move again-his on her breasts and between her legs, hers circling _his_ bum and squeezing his testicles, guiding him to her. His head, thick as a snake's, pushes up against her sphincter and terror and desire thrill through her.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing once again into her body. “You want…?”

“ _Please._ ”

“Never done this.”

“Nor I,” she says as he pushes once again; in spite of her desire, her wish to give him something, to have that fabulous cock somewhere no one else has ever been, her body is fighting the intrusion. “Hurts.”

“Lubri…” She feels him arch away from her, even as his thing stays firmly if shallowly planted in her bottom, even as his lower hand continues to stroke her cunt as if it were a frightened cat.   
  
He bends back and mutters a few words, and then a few more. A warm tingle spreads through her bum.

“Did you just…? Was that a Butterfinger Jinx? You cast a Butterfinger Jinx on my _bottom_?”

“And my tadger. Shh,” he says, dropping his wand and taking hold of her upper hip. He presses his cock into her anus again and…

_Ohhhhhhh._

She breathes deeply as old Mrs. Patil used to teach them to do when they were children and she wanted them to stop fighting; Pansy's muscles relax, and Ron slips _through_. Smoothly, he slides into her, and it is a feeling entirely unlike anything she's ever felt before-full and hot and _nasty_.

“ _FUCK_!” he screams. “Fuck, Pansy, I love your arse. So fucking… _Fuck!_ ”

Her mind is full of smart comebacks and catty comments and at the moment her mouth doesn't care; the feeling of him filling her, his cock opening her, his hands on her, inside of her-all of it leaves her mouth wide and mute, leaves her entire body inundated by sensation and utterly beyond language. Soon, much more quickly this time, her mind goes the same way as her mouth and there is nothing but the heat of him. His tongue, his teeth find her ear, and once again the circuit closes; the magic flows and they both explode.

She is crying again. _Ron. Ron. Ron._

“Merlin,” he pants, and his voice sounds small and distant. “Pansy… You okay?”

Shakily, she laughs. Eyes still full of tears, arse still full of Weasley, she burbles quietly, _"Alons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé…!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Twilight Sorcery, detail from “It’s Okay If We Never Leave the Hotel” — used with permission


	11. Canta y No Llores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Teen angst. Painful irony.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, aberforths_rug for unlocking the eternal mystery!

Hermione puts down her book and glances across the room at Harry, who is sitting on his bed, contemplating the phoenix that they now refer to as Firesong. “Harry?”

Boy and bird blink; both look at her. “Yeah?” Harry answers.

“Um, Firesong, do you mind? I… I want to talk with Harry.”

The phoenix cocks his head, tips his beak and disappears in a flash of flame. On her perch, Hedwig stirs, blinks, and goes back to sleep. Harry’s green eyes focus on Hermione and she can’t help but shiver. “Harry,” she says, “you’re not using Legilimency now, are you?”

His eyebrows arch. “No. No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that, not without asking. Besides, I couldn’t. I’m not good enough yet. I’d have to use my wand and the incantation, and you’d have me disarmed and in a Full Body Bind before I could manage.”

“Oh.” Hermione draws herself up, considering what he is saying. “You didn’t ask Fawkes—Firesong, that is.”

“No,” Harry answers with a smile. “No, he sort of… invited me in. Reached out to me. I didn’t have to initiate the contact.”

Hermione nods; this fits with what she has seen Professor Lupin teaching Harry, and with the books on Legilimency that she’s read. Few ever reach Professor Dumbledore’s proficiency, or Voldemort’s. Even so, it is more than a bit disconcerting to imagine Harry being able to see her thoughts. Especially at the moment.

“So… was there something you wanted to tell me, Hermione?” Harry prods. “Or ask me?”

Hermione grips her hands together to stop from wringing them. “Are you sure you’re not reading my mind?” she says with what she hopes is more a smile than a grimace.

“Well, even a dunce like me can read your body language just now, Hermione.” They share a smile, but still Hermione cannot simply speak her mind. Harry leans forward. “What is it? Something you found in one of your books?”

She shakes her head.

“Is it… about the Horcruxes?”

Again, she shakes her head.

“Oh.” He chews his lip. “It’s some… personal thing, is it?”

She nods.

He scowls at her. “You’re going to make me guess, aren’t you?”

Hermione shakes her head, takes a deep breath and lets her hands wring as they will. “Harry. Am I…? Do you think I’m… pretty?”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up above his glasses and his jaw drops. “I… _What_? Of, of course I do!”

“Not that physical appearance is that important, of course,” she blurts. 

“Yeah, come on, of course you’re…” He is pushing frantically at his hair. Suddenly the posture of maturity with which Harry has been carrying himself all summer shatters and he looks as fidgety and uncertain as the skinny boy she first met on the Hogwarts Express. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. He and Ron have both been using far too much questionable language around her of late, but it seems silly to point that out in this moment. “Come on. You know… Do you want to know if _I_ think…?”

“Well,” Hermione murmurs, staring down at her dancing hands, “that is what I asked.” Buck teeth and frizzy hair and... And if Ron really cared for me...

“Erm,” Harry mutters. “Well. Yes.”

 _Yes?_ “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice sounding very high to her own ear. “Thank you.” A feeling of mixed relief and unfulfilled longing flows through her; her hands stop moving.

“You’re welcome.” He starts to fidget again, staring at her. “Not, you know…”

Hermione cannot help but smile. “I know what sort you fancy, Harry.”

“I…” Harry gulps. “Oh?”

“Sporty. Freckles. Ponytail.”

At first Hermione worries that she has made a mistake, referring to Ginny or to Cho in even the most oblique terms. Blinking madly, mouth working, Harry seems to be struggling to find some argument against her observation. Finally, his shoulders droop. “I… Oh. Damn.” Then, miraculously, he grins. “Guess I should warn Fleur to keep an eye on Bill, then.”

“ _Harry_!” Hermione snorts in shock.

Harry snorts back, and very soon, both of them are giggling madly like the school children they have never somehow been. She finds herself thinking of old Archie at the Quidditch World Cup—of the three of them giggling all of the way to the tents, of Ginny quietly joining in… Crying in the tent with her that evening; boys... There have been some wonderful times in the past few years, but she doesn’t remember laughing like this with either of the boys since then. Well, was the whole tattoo thing, but that was with Ginny…

“That’s not the only kind of girl I like,” Harry says very quietly.

“Maybe not,” Hermione answers, torn between trying to be kind and taking pleasure in the rare opportunity to tease—not to mention avoiding her own dilemma. “You do seem to lose yourself in that particular model, however. Well, let’s see—we know you don’t fancy swotty and bushy haired—”

“Hey!” he says, pouting again, “I said…”

“Can you see yourself fancying _me_ , Harry? Come on.”

His eyes take on their preternaturally fierce focus. “Yeah. I can see that. It would be weird, and it probably wouldn’t work out terribly well and it wouldn’t be either of our first choice, but yeah, I can see it.”

“Oh.” Hermione waits for her throat to stop fibrillating. He is right, of course, but it's one of those possibilities that she has always felt it easier to tuck away on a back shelf. For exactly the reasons that he pointed out. And because she wouldn't want to hurt Ginny. Or Ron. It always comes back to... If Ron really cared for... “Well. Swotty with bushy hair is in after all. Fancy Luna?”

His hunter’s eyes narrow. “Go easy on Luna. She’s nice. You shouldn’t tease her.”

“She _is_ nice. I wasn’t teasing _her_ ,” mutters Hermione.

He cocks his head in a manner quite reminiscent of Firesong and shrugs.

This is getting her nowhere. Hermione tries another gambit. “We talk about that sort of thing all of the time, we girls—who thinks which boy is cute, or nice, or smart or... Who we like, you know? That way?”.. you know, that way."

Unfortunately, he doesn’t take the bait; he shrugs again, his gaze still fixed on her.

“Do… Do you boys…?” Ron's perfume, so sickly sweet she could barely stand to open the bottle, but she still keeps it...

Now he smiles, and once again Hermione has the strange, unfamiliar sense that she is the young one. “Oh. Thought that’s what this was about.”

“What?” she blusters, though she knows it’s a losing game. _“I love you, Hermione...”_

The smile broadens without quite reaching his eyes. “Didn’t think you’d care much whether _I_ thought you were pretty or not.”

“That’s not true!” she harrumphs. “I do care!” _Physical appearance isn't... Unless you're a hag like I am._

“Yeah,” he grins—the sardonic Harry-and-Ginny grin so unlike Ron’s. “I’m sure you do. But not as much as you’d care if it was our roommate.”

Hermione doesn’t wish to dignify that with an answer. She doesn't wish to, but her skin manages it for her.

His face softens and saddens. “Sorry, Hermione. I can’t help. I know he thinks the world of you. He does, anyone can see it. But we don’t talk about those sorts of things.”

He thinks the world... “I thought boys always did?” she says, abandoning pretense.

Again he shrugs, and his face grows even sadder. “Seamus and Dean, sure. Neville even, sometimes. But not me and Ron. ‘Cause if we were to talk girls, you know… We’d have to end up talking about you…”

“And Ginny.”

He winces. “Yeah. And Ginny. And that would be…” Again a shrug. “Weird.”

This too is an impasse that needs to be dealt with. “Harry,” she murmurs, crossing and sitting on the bed beside him. “You need to talk to her.”

He stiffens, glaring down at his hands.

“She’s worried, Harry, and she’s hurt,” Hermione says, though she promised herself and her friend that she wouldn’t.

“Hurt?” Harry grunts. Hermione has seen him poised like this before battle. “She… She understands. She said she understood.”

“She _does_ Harry, I know she does, but…” She finds herself biting her lip. “It can’t feel good to know that she’s being asked to stay behind because she’s younger and less experienced, and because she would only distract you—”

“She thinks _that’s_ why I put things on hold between us?” He is blinking at her now, mouth hanging open.

“Well… isn’t it?”

“ _NO_.” His hands riffle madly through his hair again. “Bloody… Hermione, is that what you think? That I didn’t think she’d be _up_ for it? That she’d get in the bloody way?”

“No, Harry,” Hermione says in as mollifying a tone as she can; he is quite frightening when he is angry like this. “But that you needed to concentrate—”

“Hermione!” he snaps, grabbing her wrist, and her mouth pinches closed of its own accord. “Bloody… Don’t…? It’s not _that_ at all. Hell. I… She _understood_ , Hermione.”

“Well,” Hermione says, working hard not to pull her arm from her friend’s grasp, “perhaps I don’t understand, Harry. If that wasn’t why—”

“It _wasn’t_.” His grip relaxes; she puts her hand over his before he can pull it away. “It was… three things, really. First it’s about the fact that I’m pants at Occlumency and I always will be. I mean, I think we may be on to something with this Legilimency thing, but honestly…. The way it works is that if Voldemort or someone else tries to look at my thoughts, what they’ll see at first is the surface stuff—whatever’s floating there. And they can work their way further down, but the further from the front of my brain it is, the harder it’s going to be to see.”

He looks at her, and when she nods he continues, “So I don’t want her to get… _hurt_ or, you know, because I can’t somehow be arsed to manage well at Occlumency. Then there’s the…” He takes a deep breath. “You saw me when I thought that bastard had Sirius. I wasn’t… I didn’t _make the best strategic choices_ , I wasn’t _seeing the whole board,_ like Ron would say. If he used Ginny, I… Well, you saw what happened when he took her second year. And she and I hadn’t even exchanged a dozen words then. I didn’t….” He shakes himself. “And the last thing—and I don’t know if she knows this, and I’ll never say it to her, because I know she’d bite my head off, but it’s true: if I’m not around, she might find someone else.” His hands fly up. “I know she says she never gave up on me, I know she… But she saw Michael and Dean. And maybe she’ll start seeing someone else, and maybe that would make it okay if, you know, something happened…” He grips her arm hard again, and sighs. “I’ve spent my whole life missing the people who loved me. I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Oh, Harry.”

For the thousandth time, she tries to imagine what it must be like to be Harry Potter, to have lost so much, so often—the raw ache of it floods through her like acid. But she knows that trying to run away from loss is no way to live.

They sit there for a minute or three, each lost in thoughts far too fustian to verbalize. When her own breathing and his seem to have stabilized, she says, “Harry? May I respond, or would that not be helpful?”

He hunkers down. “Respond?”

“To your points,” she says, attempting to be kind.

He sighs. “Oh. Fine. Respond away.”

“First of all,” she says, “as to keeping Ginny out of your surface thoughts, and therefore safe, how many minutes out of the day can you say you’ve gone this past month without thinking of her?”

His face takes on the most miserable pout she’s ever seen, and a part of her wants to laugh—wants to but fortunately doesn’t.

“Second,” she continues, “as for his using Ginny against you—how well did you hide your relationship this past spring?”

“Hide?” He looks insulted.

“Well, you started by kissing her in front of the whole of Gryffindor. You hardly stopped touching her for the next five weeks, either in the common room, out on the grounds, in the Great Hall… If there’s a student or a teacher at the school who didn’t know that you were infatuated with her, I would be shocked.”

His face pales.

“Draco Malfoy and… Snape certainly knew,” she says, regretting saying it, but knowing it is true.

He groans, and buries his face in her hands.

“Third…” She bites her lip, then shakes her head and goes on. “Harry, I know you want to spare her, and I think it’s really… It’s very _you_. But no. She’s not giving up on you. She’s not…. Ginny’s warm and bright and loving and funny, and I have no doubt she’ll have people to keep her company—Neville and Luna, for a start—but she’s not going to find Mr. Right and move on from you, Harry. I’m afraid this is yet another thing you can’t spare her.”

He tilts his head so that one eye peers up at her and mutters miserably, “Bugger.”

“Yes, well, no doubt there’s a less obscene way of expressing yourself, but I can’t blame you for feeling as you do.” She squeezes his hand. “I’m so sorry, Harry. And yes, it’s time to talk to her.”

A malicious glint flares in his single visible eye. “You’re one to talk.”

Her breath catches. “I…? What do you—”

“You know what I mean, Hermione, come on. I’ve been sharing this room with the two of you and I’ll admit, you’ve been on your best behavior, the two of you, if I have to watch the two of you mooning at each other another minute I think I’m going to scream.”

“Moon? I… He _isn’t mooning_ at me.” _Ron... If Ron really_ cared...

He picks his head up, and she sees the same evil Ginny-like grin. “Perhaps you’re taking it in turns.”

“Oh!” Hermione gasps. “I call _that_ nice!”

“Come on, Hermione?” Harry says, and now he is squeezing _her_ hand. “I mean, what are you waiting for?”

She leans back against the wall. She can smell him here, even though this is Harry’s room, Harry’s side of the shared bed. But _Ron_ … “I… Things seemed to be going so _well_ , Harry,” she mumbles. “When you and Ginny got together, and he was finally detached from Lavender, and we were laughing together and hardly fighting at all…”

“Hardly,” he says, and she scowls down at him, but he doesn’t look as if he’s being sarcastic.

“We were getting very… _close_. As if we both knew what was coming, and we didn’t want to frighten it away.”

“What happened?”

She has been asking herself this for the past month. “Well, he was always… deferential. He never wanted to initiate anything with me, touching or… whatever. And then Dumbledore… I don’t know what it is, Harry, but except for the memorial service, he’s barely touched me. When you’re not with us, he can barely look at me. It’s as if… As if he’s, he’s ashamed of me, or ashamed that we touched, or unhappy…”

Harry does something that Hermione never anticipated—something that he’s never done on his own: he puts an arm around her shoulder and hugs her. “I don’t think he’s ashamed, Hermione. Not of you, anyway. Maybe of himself, for the whole Lavender thing, maybe?”

She looks over at him—his face is as open and sincere as she has seen it all summer. “How… Catholic of him.”

“Ron’s not Catholic,” he says with a frown.

“All the more so,” Hermione answers, a small laugh bubbling up.

Harry smiles, if only slightly. “He’ll come around.”

“I hope so.” A thought worms its way out, and she can feel her own small smile dissipate. “Where do you think he went today?”

He too loses his smile. “He said, didn’t he? The accountant cousin? About the lead on the—”

“It’s just…” It’s just that Hermione has a sudden image of the cousin having silky hair and red lips and a mind for more than figures, and a figure… “It’s nothing.”

Harry squeezes her. “He’ll come around.”

“I hope so.”

“Want me to beat him up?”

She snorts into his shoulder. “No! No beating up Ron!”

“Unless you get to do it,” he says into the top of her head and she finds herself smiling and tearing up at the same time.

“You really think he…?” Hermione feels so pathetic, so twelve years old; she wonders how Ginny could have stood it for so long. Of course, Ginny _was_ twelve years old, not seventeen.

“Yeah,” Harry all but whispers into her hair. “I do. I don’t know what he’s moping on about, but he’s been... You’re his perfect woman.”

Laughter to tears to laughter to tears… “Then why…?”

“Because, Hermione… He’s Ron. He always feels like he’s not as good as anyone else, and he feels guilty about it and angry about it at the same time. When you asked him to Slughorn’s party last Christmas? The only reason he didn’t go—the only reason he started acting like some sort of leech around Lavender was… Well…”

Even thinking about it—even now—fills Hermione with cold rage. “Because Ginny’d told him I’d kissed Viktor. I was _so_ angry when she told me that. Three kisses! And he kissed _me!_ And they were… _disappointing_ , you know? Viktor’s awfully nice, but he’s really awkward and his nose kept bumping me… It’s not funny, Harry!” 

“Sorry,” he sniggers. “Believe me, I know about disappointing first kisses. They get better, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never?” He pulls back to look at her; she stays as she is, shielded by her hair. “Not even this spring? I was sure—”

She shivers and shakes her head. “No, Harry.”

“Oh.” He pulls her close again. “Well, _Ron’s_ nose—”

“ _Harry!_ ” Hermione had a particularly vivid dream about that nose last night, and once again she feels as if he must be able to see just what a silly, depraved creature she really is. _His perfect woman! I don't want to be_ perfect...

“I was just saying,” he adds, the smirk clear in his voice. “Hermione, you do need to talk with him.”

She grunts.

“Come on—the two of you are going to be unbearable if you don’t work this out. It’s bad enough when you’re bickering with each other, but this polite… whatever-it-is is excruciating.”

“I’ll try,” she sighs. “But Ron doesn’t like it when I initiate too much—he feels, as you said, he feels inadequate or something. I’ve been waiting…” She looks over at him; his expression is still serious. “I’ll talk with him if you talk with Ginny.”

He groans. “Bloody Weasleys.”

“You can bloody say that again.”

He gasps in mock horror. “Hermione! If Ron heard that language, he’d have a heart attack!”

She pinches off a smile, and picks up the book that Harry has been leafing through for the past few weeks, _Nature’s Noblility_.

Really, when did it start? It could just as easily have been Harry, couldn't it, or Dean, or Terry Boot or Ernie MacMillan or, well, just about anyone else? There must have been some moment... Hermione searches back, looking for the instant when she chose the path of misery and frustration that is her love life. She was already doomed before Viktor, the poor dear; she remembers the first of many moist commiserations on the gittishness of boys with Ginny in the tent at the Quidditch World Cup.

Perhaps she should simply throw herself at Ron like Lavender? Or play the damsel in distress? Much as the archetype turns her stomach, it worked after a fashion for Ginny...

Hermione shudders and looks at Harry, who is staring out the window as if he could peer acoss four counties and see her. No—it wasn't rescuing Ginny that made Harry see her, it was Ginny finally being Ginny.

And Ron doesn't need to see the real Hermione. He knows her all too well. And not well enough. Not as well as she would like.

She looks down at the book and sees where her unconscious skimming has brought her: _WEASLEY, Arthur (1949–) Ottery St Catchpole, Devon; 1st son, Bilius Weasley and Clothilda Weasley née Prewett; Griff..._

_Why is Mrs. Weasley not there?_

“Wizarding names are so odd, aren’t they?” she says, flipping backwards to the Ts. “Here you’ve got lots of Trelawneys, fifteen, _eighteen_ entries for Toke, if you please, and a dozen for Thurkell, lots for Summerby, but only two for Smith and…” She riffles to the front, to pages that are well-worn and dog-eared. “Just… Oh, well, a few for Black after all.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers almost expressionlessly. “Yeah, nine. I know the Bs by heart at this point, from looking for our friend who left the note in the bloody locket.” He starts ticking off fingers. “Sirius’s parents—they were both born Blacks—his aunt and two uncles. And his cousins—Tonks’s mum and the two mad ones. And Sirius himself, of course.”

Hermione blinks, looking down at the minute entries. A thrill passes through her. “Harry… Harry, what year was this published?” When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, she opens the title page and gasps. “1960. Oh!” She looks back at the Black family entries. “That’s it!” Images cascade through her mind’s eye all at once, very much like the filmstrip that played out in her imagination last night… _Ron’s nose…_ She shivers. A tapestry. RAB. The locket. A locket. Mundungus Fletcher. Borgin and Burkes'. Voldemort. The cup… She throws back the pages of the book, desperately turning back to the Ss. Smith. “That’s it! Harry!”

“Er, Hermione?” He looks more than a bit frightened. “ _What’s_ it?”

“He was born _the next year,_ you see?” Clearly he doesn’t. She takes a breath. “I know who RAB is, Harry. And where the locket is—or at least, where it was. And I think I may know where the cup is. Or at least, who can get us more information on it.” She proceeds to lay out the whole of her discovery and of her hypotheses.

While Hermione spells it out, Harry’s jaw drops. He closes it when she finishes and sits up straight. “Well, that’s…” He shakes his head and grins. “Hermione, we’ve already established that you’re not my sister. And I’m your friend and I think you’re pretty, but I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. And I have no interest in Ron—or Ginny—beating _me_ up. Otherwise, you know what?”

“No,” she laughs, shaking her head.

“Hermione, if not for all of those other things, I would give you the biggest, longest, wettest, least disappointing kiss of your life.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, feeling her face catch fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter is adapted from TomScribble, “Hermione” — used with permission.


	12. Coda to a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a kiss can solve all of your problems. Sometimes it can't.

As Ginny babbles on, staring up into the bright-lit sky between the willow leaves, she realizes that she has started to bore herself, never mind Luna. _Harry Potter, blah-blah-blah. Doesn’t appreciate, blah-blah-blah. Already in danger, blah-blah-blah. Who the hell does he…? Blah-blah-blah. Blah._

Luna doesn’t look bored. Her eyes are as wide and unblinking and opalescent as ever as she lies on her tummy, chin propped on Ginny’s knee, and listens to the rant go on and on and on….

Ginny knows she’s stopped occasionally—stopped saying all of this, at least, if not thinking it. She’s barely mentioned Harry around her parents, just because there were too many pitfalls waiting there—admitting that she and Harry had been seeing each other would have been more than enough to send her mother into Molly-quakes of mingled joy and motherly anxiety. Saying that Harry broke it off for reasons that were good enough but—honestly—stupid would have sent both Mum and Dad around the twist. And of course she never quite says any of it in any of her letters to Hermione—just as Hermione never quite tells her that Harry is suffering the well-deserved tortures that he's brought on himself. So she’s bent everyone else’s ear instead: Luna, who’s been visiting quite a lot; Bill, who can’t seem to decide whether Ginny’s better off out of it or not, and if not whether he should go and punch Harry in the conk for breaking his little sister’s heart; Remus and Tonks, who shared lots of very pointed looks back and forth but didn’t have much to say; Neville, who was so amazingly sympathetic that complaining to him was totally unsatisfying; and even George, who listened with absolutely uncharacteristic seriousness and finally told Ginny she knew being around Harry was going to be a bloody pain, that Harry didn’t mean to be that way, but there you are, and if she didn’t like it there were plenty of other boys, but if she _did_ want to stay with Harry she needed to take a deep breath and lump it.

Which, remarkably, was probably the best advice so far, though Ginny only barely missed hexing him, and then only because Fred came into the room and the door jostled Ginny’s elbow, ruining her aim.

Luna hasn’t had _any_ advice, but she’s been willing to listen, and listen, and listen without trying to make it better or change anything—Neville wanted so desperately to _fix_ things that Ginny started asking him about caring for her mum’s roses just to get him to stop.

“Sorry,” Ginny sighs. “I’m not much fun today, am I?”

“Oh, I think you’re rather entertaining,” Luna answers vaguely, rolling her face to one side so that the cheek now rests on Ginny’s bony knee.

“Is that comfortable?” Ginny blurts. When her friend doesn’t answer, she continues, if only to stop her own interminable _blah-blah-blah_ , “How’s the article coming?”

“It’s two articles now. Daddy didn’t want to wait another month for the story on the night that the headmaster died, and an interview with a woman whose Kneazle had a lightning bolt mark on its head just like Harry’s has fallen through—the markings turned out to be white phosphorous from a potion that came off when the kitty fell into its owner’s tub—so for this issue I’ve written up the bit about The-Person-We-All-Think-We-Know really being a half-blood named Tom Riddle who was raised by Muggles.”

Ginny stiffens, glancing back up at the sky through the leaves.

Luna slithers up beside her, leaning against the willow’s battered trunk. “You knew that, of course. About Voldemort.”

 _Tom_. “You know I did.”

“Yes, I do know.It was a rhetorical question, you see. That’s why I don’t ask them terribly frequently—people so often think you’re asking a real question, of course.”

Ginny grunts. “Did you… put in any of the stuff about me? From first year?”

“Oh, no,” Luna says, her voice very low and serious—at least it sounds serious, though it’s difficult to tell with Luna. “You told me it was a secret. I wouldn’t tell. It was the very first secret anyone had ever told me, so of course I wouldn’t tell.”

An upwelling of some weird concoction of emotions threatens Ginny’s throat. “Thanks.”

They sit there in silence for a moment. “What are you looking for up there, Ginny?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. When I was little I used to love coming out here, looking for patterns and pictures in the shapes of the leaves.”

“Oh, how nice.” Luna’s hair spills onto Ginny’s shoulder as she too looks up. “Have you found anything?”

Squinting, desperate for some sort of answer to some sort of question, Ginny peers up for a moment and then shakes her head. “No. No, I haven’t.”

“Oh. I see what looks like a swarm of Nargles over there.” A thin, white finger points up at one of the hopeless tangles of branches. “You have to look at it just so.”

“Ah.”

“It has been very nice talking to you so much,” Luna says, her tone just as light and diffuse. “I hardly got to see you or Harry or the others this year. I rather missed meetings of Dumbledore’s Army. It was fun learning all of those hexes and curses. I know the DA members weren’t really my friends, but it felt like it, and that was awfully nice.”

“Luna!” Ginny admonishes without looking down. “That’s not true! I mean, I know they’re not all your friends, but we were. _I_ was. I am.”

“Oh. How nice.”

Again they sit side by side, looking up into the willow and beyond it. After some time—minutes?—Ginny finds herself saying— _blah-blah-blah_ , “Do you know what _I_ miss? It’s stupid and girly and ridiculous, but Merlin, I miss _kissing_ and touching. With Michael and with Dean, it was _nice_ , but it wasn’t like I was addicted or anything, but just that short time with Harry, and it wasn’t as if we did _that_ much kissing or any touching beyond, you know, what most people do, and it _is_ stupid, because here there are more important things going on then a bloody snog, but, oh, hell, I _miss_ —”

The silver-blue sky and silhouetted leaves disappear behind a sea of wheat-white, and a pair of thin, dry-ish lips slap suddenly against her own mid-sentence. Teeth click and noses bump and Ginny feels as if her head is full of slow, thick treacle through which shock is struggling to explode.

She has had her share of first kisses, Ginny Weasley. When they were seven and eight, she convinced Ron to kiss her, just, you know, to _see_. He pronounced it grotty, and she was forced to agree—it was, at the very least, quite disappointing. Playing a game of Spin the Wand in the first-year boys’ dorms before Colin was Petrified—before she had him Petrified—Ginny’s wand stopped on the blond boy, and all of their dorm-mates giggled at how cute it was that the Boy Who Lived’s two biggest admirers were _meant_ for each other. Colin froze there, stock still for the first time ever while she gave him a quick peck on the lips. When she saw him in the Hospital Wing months later she thought perhaps that frozen expression was a premonition. Neville pounced on her rather clumsily when she gave him a buss beneath the mistletoe at the Yule Ball and then he wouldn’t stop apologizing for months. Michael was nice, though once again it was Ginny who had to initiate things. Dean was a proper Gryffindor, sweeping her into her first real snog when they found each other in that deserted corridor after Quidditch try-outs. But he was always so gentlemanly— _too_ gentlemanly—and Ginny had found herself so _frustrated_ that she’d finally started pushing… only to be walked in on by Ron and Harry in that same no-longer deserted corridor.

Nothing like this.

_Harry…_

A confusion of sensations and feelings finally break through the treacle as Luna’s face pulls back from Ginny’s. Luna’s face, which for the first time in years doesn’t look pale or placid or calm: splotches of color splatter her forehead and cheeks; her eyes, usually so wide and eerie, are squeezed almost shut; her mouth…

Her mouth looks like a tragedy mask like the one Bill showed them from the old Greek part of Alexandria—so miserable and down-bowed that it was almost laughable. The mouth begins to work. “Oh, I—Oh, Ginny, don’t—I, oh, shouldn’t…” Luna falls backward and almost immediately her arms and legs start working as she crabs her way backwards away from Ginny. “Sorry. Incomplete... I, faulty infer... Oh, I, oh my, never, oh, don’t—”

Ginny’s hand moves of its own accord, latching on to a ridiculously skinny ankle. “Luna. Stop. Don’t.”

Luna freezes, rather as Colin had, only the look of horror on her face is that of a veteran of battles with Death Eaters, not that of an eleven-year-old Muggleborn. “I think perhaps that it seems as if perhaps I should—”

“Don’t go, Luna,” Ginny pleads, her grip on Luna’s ankle tight. “You don’t have to. It’s all right. I’m not hurt or angry or…”

“Oh.” Luna looks down at her ankle—at Ginny’s hand. Her eyes flicker quickly as if she is reading. “Well. That was very unexpected.”

Ginny snorts.

“I think,” Luna says rather pensively, “that I should have asked first.”

“It’s all right, Luna. I mean, yeah, that would have saved me from heart attack and all, but it’s okay. I mean, I was talking about—”

“You would have been able to say no.” Luna’s face is regaining some of its usual calm, but the red blotches haven’t faded entirely.

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “But Harry never asked either the first time.” _Harry_.

“Oh.” Luna’s color, which is usually non-existent, still hasn’t stabilized. “I feel odd.”

“It’s about time,” Ginny mutters. ( _Can’t keep your gob shut, can you, Weasley?_ )

“Oh.” Luna’s eyes go wide and round again—her eyes, her mouth all perfect _O_ s—and she looks more like herself. Then she starts to turn red again. Guilt worries at Ginny’s stomach, but before she can begin to torture herself, before she can start to apologize, Luna’s face twists and she lets out a scream of laughter so uproarious that a flight of sparrows perched in the upper branches of the willow startle into flight. “ _That’s funny_!” she howls, and Ginny joins in—not quite as freely as her friend, but loudly and in relief.

Before they have quite caught their breaths, the curtain of willow opens, letting in a burst of sunlight, and Bill steps through. “Hey, Sparks,” he says. “Hey, Luna.” Ginny still can’t quite reconcile herself to the scars on her handsome brother’s face—they feel like a lie, a joke, a mustache drawn on a beautiful painting.

“Hello, Bilius,” Luna says, her voice even, though tears are still dribbling out of her large eyes.

“What were you two laughing about?” Bill asks, the familiar smirk twisting his lips. “Sounded good, whatever it was.”

Before Ginny can think how to explain, Luna jumps in. “We were talking about starting up the DA again,” she answers, though this is in no way an answer nor even vaguely the truth.

“The—?”

“Yeah,” says Ginny, who has learned bluffing from the best, Bill included. “The Defense club that Hermione and Harry started a couple of years back. We were talking about how it might be a good idea to start training again—”

“And to have some witches and wizards tutor us,” Luna adds.

“Yeah—Tonks could teach combat spells, and you could teach us about reversing curses, and Remus could—”

“Sounds great,” Bill says scratching his ear. “Not sure how it got you laughing, mind…”

“Oh,” says Luna, quite seriously, “Ginny was saying that Tonks could teach us kicking drills, and I thought she said kissing drills. It really was rather funny.”

He smiles dubiously. “I bet. Well, if you get Mum and Dad to sign on, it sounds like a great idea. I’d love to help.”

“Cool,” Ginny said. _Anything to keep his mind off of Fleur and the fact that he can’t work till after the wedding_ , she mused.

Nodding, Bill said, “In any case, dinner’ll be ready in a bit. Mum wanted to know if Luna here wanted to join us.”

“Thank you, Bilius,” said Luna. “However, I never miss Thursday evening meals. My father always serves _T_ foods on Thursdays: tonight is tuna, tomatoes and treacle tart for afters.”

“Delicious,” Bill says, and winks. “Maybe I should see if I could swing an invite over to your place.”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Perhaps next week. It will be turkey, trollberries and tiramisu.”

“Er,” says Bill, apparently uncertain whether Luna is having him on or not, “great. Well, I’ll see you later, Luna. Ginny, Mum expects you in to wash up and help in a half hour.” The willow branches part again, and Luna and Ginny are left alone in the still, shadowed silence of the tree.

As always when she’s nervous, Ginny tries a joke. “Remind me never to play cards with you, Loony. ‘ _T_ foods’? Bloody brilliant. And that bluff about the DA—”

“I am sorry, Ginevra,” Luna says with great solemnity.

“Sorry?” _Bugger_. “Don’t, Luna, please. It’s all right, I told you.”

“You didn’t want to kiss me.”

“It’s not—it was a bit of a shock, honestly, I’m…”

Luna waits patiently for the end of the sentence, but Ginny can’t finish. The huge, moonglow eyes that never seem to look you in the eye—over your shoulder, at your ear, over your head, but never in the eye—are focused on Ginny’s lips, and she feels alarm creeping back up her throat.

“Tell me, Ginny,” Luna says, a small frown puckering her thin eyebrows, “was that a _kiss_ or a _snog_? I’m trying to understand the difference.”

“A… a kiss. It’s not a difference you can explain in words terribly well.”

“You could show me,” Luna responds, logical as always.

Waves of panic race through Ginny; she places her hand on Luna’s shoulder to stop even the possibility of a thought of an attempt. “Luna… It’s not… not because you’re a girl. Or because you’re _you_ , definitely not, I’m… I didn’t realize you were, you know, _serious_ about that, being _sexually attracted_ to me, honestly…”

“Oh, I was very serious,” says Luna seriously.

“Yeah,” Ginny laughs grimly. A sudden thought strikes her. “Oh, hell, Luna, I’m so sorry, I’m such a rotten… Here you told me, and all I’ve done is whinge on and on about _Harry_.”

Luna smiles her otherwhen smile. “Oh, I don’t mind that at all. I told you: I find him quite attractive too.”

“Right.” Ginny’s heart hurts in so many different ways just now that she can’t quite work out just what she’s feeling,which is unusual for her. She squeezes her friend’s shoulder and releases it. “Luna. I am really sorry. I didn’t handle that very well at all. I’m really, you know, touched that you feel that way. It’s just…”

At last Luna’s eyes float away from Ginny’s lips, and Ginny is struck by just how silver-blue they are, just like the bright summer evening sky still visible through the leaves. “It’s just that I’m not Harry.”

“No. Yeah.”

“No.” She peers back up through the leaves. “When do you think we should start the DA again? I’ll write Neville after supper this evening. Oh, and it is T foods—I don't think I know what a bluff is, but that wasn't one.”

Ginny shakes her head, astonished as always by Luna’s ability to step past and through discomfort as if it weren’t there.

It isn’t until they are parting ways that she thinks, _A girl just kissed me._ Luna _just kissed me_. And she tries to work out for the rest of the night just how she feels about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter — and in the middle — are Sillyshy, “Nothing Like This” — commissioned by Antosha for aberforths_rug.


	13. A Proportion of Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the elements of fire and earth, God placed two other elements of air and water, and arranged them in a continuous proportion -- Plato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter combines in two forms that I'm too fond of for my own good: the multi-drabble mini-epic (in this case, six double drabbles and a triple) and the as-yet-nameless style wherein I shift PoV... midsentence. Yeah. Here I go again. ;-)
> 
> Warnings: Gen. Midsentence PoV shifts. Minor character death. References to other fantasy series. ;-)
> 
> Thanks as always to my beneficent beta, aberforths_rug!

Neville brushes the dark soil from his fingers, watching an owl swoop in low over Gran’s roses—it’s too big for Pigwidgeon, for all that its flight path is a wild zigzag over invisible ley lines. With a barrel roll, the owl deposits its letter where Neville’s knees rest in the mud.

“Hullo, Ganymede,” Neville says. ( _Only Luna would have an owl like that_.) The bird hoots and promptly goes to sleep. Grinning, Neville reads.

 _Hullo Neville,_ the loopy script begins—no date, no address, nothing so down-to-earth.

_Ginny and I were thinking of starting up the DA again this summer. Wouldn’t that be fun? Her brother and Professor Lupin already agreed to teach…_

The letter continues elliptically to describe the plans to revive Dumbledore’s Army; Neville feels his pulse racing. _Will Harry_ …?

At the end he finds two post-scripts:

_PS I kissed Ginny. I think she was surprised. I know I was._

_PPS I lied to her brother Bill. That surprised me too, but it’s why we thought of starting the DA._

Neville laughs at the wonder that is Luna. Shaking his head, he rises from the flowerbed. “Hold on Ganymede; I’ll send back a letter.” He grins. “Or maybe

  
  


two is just right,” Horace Slughorn burbles to himself, holding the snifters of rather fine Muggle brandy daintily in either hand as he lowers himself into the large, steaming tub.

Really, this seemed the best way—this family is in South Africa on holiday; they live in a rather exclusive neighborhood, which means good food, privacy, and…

And a snowy owl tapping at the window. Potter’s bird. Blast. Intriguing.

Hogwarts isn’t safe any more; Dumbledore’s own death made _that_ eminently clear, and he didn’t think that he would be found by any of the normal methods…

Unfortunately, the Potter boy _knows_ just how deeply Horace is fascinated by him—against his better judgment, against his own interests. Any other owl might tap itself bloody at the glass …

He sighs, picks up his wand and lets the bird in.

The letter is from the Granger girl—brains and a nose for alliances such as Potter and McClaggen. Even so, he gulps as he sorts through questions about Horcruxes and their destruction, laid out methodically in her minute, precise script. His veins freeze.

And then a post-script: why on earth would she want to know about his squib cousins the Durlseys, the   
  


bloody hunk of meat to the closest Thestral, who takes it, pale-eyed and grateful—poor lonely creatures. Luna slips astride its back and they rise…

She loves to fly in her dreams. Sometimes it is on the back of a Thestral and sometimes she can simply spread her arms and soar above Stoatshead Hill. Always it is wonderful.

The Thestral—Luna thinks of it as Silver in the dream—turns its head to the right as they climb cloudward, and there on her own Thestral is Ginny, looking radiant in a long white nightdress of a kind that Luna knows Ginny never wears; it floats gossamer-like, dreamlike around her naked feet, showing pale, freckled calves.

They are looking. They are looking for Harry. He is lost. He is in danger—no, _Ginny_ is worried that he is in danger, but Luna knows that it will be all right. She reaches out to her friend, and suddenly, in the way of dreams, they are on the same creature, wings beating to either side of them. Luna holds Ginny tight to her, warm to her, pink skin and red hair in the moonlight like a hot gust carrying her up. “Look,” says Luna, “isn’t it

beautiful, thinks the phoenix, stretching its wings to their full span and looking down at the whole of southern England stretched out below it. It is a creature of magic; its wings do not fly solely on air, and so, from time to time, it takes a flight up into parts of the atmosphere through which no other creature could soar—which only a very few humans have reached.

Below it, London and its neighbors spread like a web of fire, light linked to light, burning even through clouds and evil-born fog, flaring like hope inextinguishable. Far to the north, over Hogwarts, a curtain of eerie light floats in the sky as if in answer to the terrestrial call for illumination.

The phoenix loves the aurora borealis; the first time it saw them, a thousand burnings and more into its long, long life, it was so moved that it wept; Gid laughed at him for days, but he did not mind. Beauty is beauty, and she laughed for joy at the phoenix’s transport.

Down below, the fog and shadows that have laid such a weight on the phoenix’s heart and those of the people it loves seem more discreet. Something is

  
  


happening, eh, boy,” chuckles Charlie, patting the dragon beneath him.

He blames it on Ted Tonks. When Charlie was licking his wounds for losing Nym to his brother, her dad—the old hippie—tried to cheer him up by sharing a bunch of silly Muggle books.

Most really were silly, and Charlie and Ted laughed at what Muggles thought of magic and magical creatures—one book had a bunch of trolls turning to stone at the sunrise, if you please, and a talking dragon. But some took Charlie’s breath away.

One was about a long, long boat ride—all of that writer’s books seemed to be full of boat rides, but Charlie still liked them—and how a wizard and his young Muggle friend had sailed into islands _full_ of dragons and Charlie could just see them—soaring, turning, spouting flame.

Then he read that whole trunk-full by that McCaffrey person and he knew what he wanted to be.

And here he is.

There’s a knot of fog directly below, radiating cold. _Fifth target this week Wicked_.

Hauling on the long dragonhide reins, Charlie wheels them into a steep dive and lets out a whoop. “C’mon, Norbert, old lad! Let’s go make some Dementor

  
  


toast, Harry? Ron?” murmurs Hermione. They all stand there, stunned, staring down into the Pensieve, where Professor Dumbledore is once again explaining a number of the murkier aspects of his own behavior, as well as suggesting the ways forward in a number of their own more desperate endeavors.

The kettle is bubbling energetically away, steam filling the whole Grimmauld Place kitchen, but none of them move to take it off the flame. Tea things lie forgotten.

“Bloody hell,” murmurs Ron.

“Well,” Hermione says, “he always told us there were reasons he trusted Snape.”

“D’you think the greasy git even knows he’s stored his own memories away?” asks Ron.

Harry stands there, looking as if he’s drowning.

Stomach sloshing, Hermione tries to reason with him. “Dumbledore knew, Harry—”

Ron’s fingers touch Hermione’s; energy pours from the point of contact. “He was playing a large game, Dumbledore. Snape too.” His eyes are still on Harry, but when her fingers close around his, his breath catches. “I think… I think we should get them both out. Snape. And Draco. They’re… useful.”

If she weren’t so surprised, she’d kiss him. His eyes stay focused on Harry, who grunts, “Let’s dive back in. I still don’t

  
  


believe that he will ever see the sky again, buried alive as he is. Even without Dementors, this place sucks the soul out of a wizard—even a noble Malfoy soul.

Lucius returns to his Sisyphean task, digging at the wall with his battered, pathetic spoon. He has calculated it: if he stays alive, if they replace the spoons, he will dig his way out… in two centuries.

Two noises disturb his disgust: a low hiss and the sound of the earth peeling open like a picked scab. Lucius turns and gasps to see a tall, thin figure standing in the middle of the room, dark within darkness but for a pale, serpentine face. A huge snake circles his feet.

Lucius falls to his knees. “M-my lord! I k-knew, I knew you would come—”

“Did you, Lucius?” the Dark Lord answers. “Such faith. So touching.”

Lucius would crawl to kiss his master’s robe, but the snake leers at him.

“Yes, Nagini, Lucius shall serve us, since he is so determined. He shall serve us well.”

 _Free!_ Lucius Malfoy’s prays.

“Indeed, Lucius, you shall serve my needs.” The Dark Lord’s voice is high and—most frightening—amused. Lucius smells his own bile mixing with the dank odor of his cell’s floor. “Alas, you have proven yourself quite untrustworthy and thoroughly incompetent, and your son is far more pliable; I need the Malfoy fortune in his hands. You shall serve me in death, as did your wife. Farewell—”

The snake strikes; its fangs piercing his skin is the last sound Lucius Malfoy ever hears—he does not hear his name.

Snake and master disappear from the cell in the bowels of Azkaban Prison as quietly as they came, leaving the erstwhile Lucifer dead on the dirt floor, slowly decomposing.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter is adapted from Hillary_CW/Cambryn, “Charlie and a Dragon” — used with permission.
> 
> ETA: Yes, I'm aware this style is not for every taste. Bear with me. I was playing around. ;-)


	14. Dumbledore's Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore gets his army after all, and Bill and Tonks share some kitchen memories...

It’s funny to be sitting here at the Weasley’s kitchen table, just the two of them, and Tonks says so.

Bill raises one ginger brow—there’s a nick out of it now that manages to make it all the more expressive. “What?” he asks. “We’ve been here before.”

Now it is her turn to smirk. “Yeah? You remember what we were doing at this table— _on_ this table—the last time you and me were here alone?”

Bill Weasley was always far too cool for his own good, but his ears start to darken, and she grins, knowing she’s got him. “Bloody hell, Tonks,” he mutters sheepishly. “That was… What?”

“Nine years?”

Both eyebrows go up, and he whistles. “Hell. Nine?” Shaking his head, he laughs. “I couldn’t keep a straight face at meals for weeks. I could barely eat. It got so bad, Mum started saying, ‘No one leaves this table without filling their belly!’”

Tonks snorts, and Bill answers with a bark of a laugh that sets them both roaring.

“Full belly!” howls Tonks, and they roar some more.

When she’s finally subsided—wheezing, snorting, wiping her eyes—Tonks hears Bill say, “So sorry, Tonks. I didn’t handle that at all well.”

In spite of herself, her jaw drops; hell, she nearly drops her tea mug. “Was that an _apology_ , Bill Weasley?”

Jaw set, he stares across at her.

There was a time when Tonks lived to hear that apology. There was a time when she would have Stunned him if he’d apologized to her. _Disappearing every time I tried to Floo, never answering my letters, leaving it to Charlie to tell me when we went back that next September and you were off with the bloody Goblins that you’d ‘moved on,’ bloody…_ “You were seventeen, Bill.”

“I was a selfish, miserable berk.”

“Like I said: you were seventeen. _And_ male.”

He snorts, but there’s a pain to it this time. “Yeah. Seventeen and male does sort of equal imbecilic git, I'll grant—look at Ronnie-kins. Mind, our Harry doesn’t seem like such a bad sort.”

“Oh, dunno, he’s done a couple of pretty bloody stupid things of late,” Tonks chuckles.

“He just wants to keep her safe, Tonks. Can’t blame him for that. _I_ can’t, anyway.”

Tonks wonders whether its Ginny he’s thinking of taking care of, or Fleur. “I suppose,” she concedes. She doesn’t hold with _taking care_ of people you love by running away from them. She thinks it’s bloody stupid. A thought startles. “I… When we were, you know… I was Ginny’s age.” The hair on her forearms lifts. “Just seems… odd when you realize that, you know?”

Bill shrugs. “Well, Ginny may look young, but somehow I feel as if she’s always been the oldest soul of us all. After her first year…” Now _he_ shivers.

The Weasleys never talk about Ginny’s first year. There are plenty of rumors on top of what is known generally; Remus has told her a little, though he wasn’t there himself and didn’t see it. One time during that summer at Sirius’s place, Tonks saw Molly try to get Ginny to be careful simply by using the words your first year. It sparked a fight like nothing Tonks has ever seen outside of the Knockturn Alley brothel she raided her first month as an Auror. “She’s tough, that one,” Tonks says.

Bill nods grimly.

“So,” Tonks says, looking to change the mood, “you tell Fleur about your earlier dalliances?”

“Oh, yes,” Bill says, a bit less grim. “She wanted a reference list. Evidently I worked out before she had to check all the way back—”

“Well, I wasn’t _all_ the bloody way back; I could have provided her with quite a few names that came before mine, Willy Weasley!”

He pulls a thoroughly disgusted face. “Bleh! Not _that_. I’d rather be called Bilius!”

“Well, then, you’d better be sure your willy never wanders, because I’ve seen what Veelas do when they’re angry, and name-calling’s going to be the least of your trouble!” she snorts.

“Yeah, fine.” He narrows his eyes. “Not that I’m the only one cavorting with a dangerous demi-human. Do I need to worry about Remus catching my scent and deciding to get territorial?”

“Oh, no,” she laughs, “I’ve given him plenty of reason to be certain that my territory is all his.”

Bill chuckles along. “So long as you promise me that he never _marked_ you on this table.”

“Not _this_ one, no,” she retorts. “So far as I know, this one is only ours.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he mumbles, and it doesn’t sound like a boast.

 _Who? Charlie? Not Percy. The twins—now there’s an image!_ Suddenly the probable truth comes to her. “Your mum and dad?”

He doesn’t answer, but he turns a red that does his family proud.

Tonks shakes her head. “Can’t decide if that’s disgusting or sweet.”

“Both.” Bill shakes his head even more vociferously. “I think that may have been when Ginny was…”

“Bloody hell.” Tonks stares down at the oak. “That would explain just why she’s such a daredevil, I suppose.”

“It might.” He shudders and stands. “Listen, I should be there when Remus and Charlie finish.”

Tonks looks at her MLES chronograph. Ten minutes. “Yeah. Tell you what, I’ll come out with you—they’ve got me scheduled to run them through some combat drills after you’re done, not that they’re going to be up for it, I would imagine.”

Striding through the door, Bill dismisses her statement with a wave of his hand. “Nah—you haven’t seen them. They’re very, very serious, and nowhere near as green as I would have thought. They’re all at least equal to where any of us were when we took our NEWTs, and Ginny, Luna and the Longbottom kid are positively fierce.”

“As well they should be, I suppose,” Tonks muses. “I mean, think on it—they’ve got as much experience facing off with Death Eaters as me or most of the Order.”

“More than I do,” Bill says, and he doesn't sound happy about it. They walk together, thoughtful for a moment, out to the old paddock. When they get there, Remus is casting some sort of fireball at the eight students while Charlie coaches from the sideline, showing them how to shield themselves against the flame. Bill chuckles. “Can’t believe Mum said this was okay.”

“Yeah, well, having half of your family nearly die over the course of a couple of years is a great incentive to let them learn to defend themselves. That, or get out of the country.”

“And it would take more than Death Eaters to get Mum out of her house.”

They laugh together. “It has been kinda nice,” Tonks says, “not having her shove me at you every time I show up. I mean, I can’t blame her for trying but…”

“I’m happy at how it’s turned out.” He leans against the fence. “You?”

“Yeah,” she says, very sincerely, leaning in towards him. “What _I_ can’t believe is that Remus talked Charlie out of letting them actually work with Norbert.”

Bill’s grin, too, is nicked; like the scarred eyebrow, it increases rather than decreases his considerable bloody charm. “He must have appealed to my bone-headed brother’s sense of cloak and dagger—Charlie was going on about how important it was to ‘maintain the tactical advantage’ by keeping the bloody dragon a secret.”

The two wizards in question end the lesson and begin striding over to where Tonks and Bill are stationed. Smoke rising from his singed forearms, Charlie lifts his taller brother over the fence in a huge bearhug. Remus kisses Tonks genteelly on the cheek—sod that. She grabs the front of his robes, pressing herself to him through the fence, leaving him no room to be uncertain how pleased she is to see him.

“Hello, Nymphadora,” Remus says. “It’s nice to see you too.”

She growls and kisses him again. The Weasley brothers start to applaud; the kids giggle and join in, clapping and whistling.

“Did you and Bill have a nice chat?” Remus whispers into her ear; suddenly Tonks feels inexplicably shy. “Don’t worry, love—it’s just that you smell… of memory.”

“Yeah,” Tonks murmurs into his neck. “It was a very nice chat.”

“Well, I’m going to go with Charlie for a bit—Norbert needs his nails filed, and it’s a two-wizard job at least. I’ll be back to see your lesson.” He kisses her again on the cheek—very warmly this time and with his fingers doing a very subtle dance that the onlookers have no chance of seeing but that sendsTonks’s nerves racing.

Then, before Tonks has a chance to catch her breath, he walks away, joined by the second Weasley. “Hey, Tonks,” calls Charlie.

“Hey,” Tonks answers. It strikes her as odd that she's more uncomfortable about Charlie, who she never did go out with, than Bill, who she shagged in the family kitchen.

Charlie seems uncomfortable too—waving to her after he’s already turned.

“Don't let Remus...” Tonks stops before she reveals the secret of Norbert. Moody'd throw a fit. “Don't let Moony do anything you wouldn't do. And make him do it behind you!” she calls. He waves again, head down. _He always was better with Quidditch and Care for Magical Creatures than he was with people. ‘Cept my dad._ She gives a snort at a new uprising of old memories.

By the time she’s turned back, Bill is leading the DA crew through a drill for counteracting common battle curses. They’re starting with standard shield spells, andTonks is duly impressed—each of the eight of them calls up a shield on the first try that easily deflects a full-strength Stunner from Bill. _Merlin_ , she thinks. _He’s right._ _Dumbledore's got his army at last._ _Harry taught them well._

Not perfectly, however. After about ten minutes, Neville Longbottom gives a squawk and his wand flies out of his hand just as he’s begun the long vertical swipe that goes with a Protego. The flash of red light catches him in the chest and throws him back eight feet, where he lands with a thud.

Bill runs over to him, but the rest of the DA members seem unphased to see one of their number Stupified. All except a moon-faced girl with a long, auburn plait, who sprints over to Neville’s still form. “Neville?”

“Do you remember the procedure, Miss Bones?” Bill asks, his high tone the only indication that anything might possibly be amiss. “Check his pulse, and then his breathing, and then—”

“ _Enervate!_ ” Susan Bones calls—Tonks can see the vague resemblance to her late boss, the indomitable Iron Amelia.

Neville’s body jerks, his arms flailing, and he sits up. “Oh! Bug—!” He blushes, holding both hands to his head. “Stupid. Stupid.”

“It’s not you,” calls Luna Lovegood, wispy voice carrying far better than it has a right to. “It’s your wand. Here you go.” She hands him the wand, and then goes back to her place in the queue.

Bill smiles—partially in relief, probably, and probably partially because Luna just makes everyone smile. “So, Mr. Longbottom, perhaps you should sit out for a bit.”

“I’m fine—” Neville starts, trying to stand, but he fades out before he manages to finish, crumpling back to his knees.

“I’ll help you,” says Susan Bones, putting his arm over her shoulder; the other six students share very student-like looks.

The wounded man and his medi-witch approach Tonks; she opens the gate to the paddock. “I’ll keep an eye on them, Bill,” she says. He waves and goes back to working with the other DA members.

Susan Bones leads Neville Longbottom over to the base of an ash that Tonks has a vague memory of snogging against with Bill. She kneels beside him and mops his brow.

“Honest, Sue,” Neville mumbles, “I’m fine. You go back.”

“Neville, are you sure—?”

“Yeah, besides, I don’t want to miss anything, and if you’re there, you can show me later.” His eyes seem fixed just below her neckline.

 _Well, well, Neville Longbottom—growing up, are we?_ “You go, Susan,” Tonks says. “I’ll keep an eye on him—and I’ll return him to you as soon as he’s up for it.”

Susan fixes Tonks with a glare that definitely smacks of Iron Amelia. Then she nods, runs her fingers unconsciously through Neville’s hair, and meanders back to the paddock, where Bill now has them practicing removing the Full-Body Bind from each other.

Neville’s eyes never leave Susan’s curvy form.

“So,” says Tonks, kneeling beside him, “got an admirer, do you?”

“W-what?” Neville stammers, head whipping toward Tonks as if he didn’t even notice she was there—which it’s possible he didn’t. In any case, he winces, hand flying back to his head. “No, no, she doesn’t, she’s just…”

“Trust a girl on this one,” Tonks says. “She was taking care of you all right, but she was also letting the rest of us know you were Not Available.”

“No,” he repeats, though it’s with less certainty. His eyes have drifted back to the girl with auburn plait. “No, I… We’re, you know, just friends. From Herbology. And the DA.”

“Nicest boy _I_ ever knew was my Herbology partner,” Tonks says. _Charlie. Bollocks with plants but a laugh and a half._

“Yeah?” Neville answers, surprisingly intently. His color is even again, but he’s still sweating from the aftermath of the Stunner. “Did you ever…?”

“No, more’s the pity. I was in love with his brother.”

“Oh.”

Tonks shrugs. “So, you like young Susan?”

“Well…”

“Not that I blame you,” Tonks says. Facing him with her back to the paddock, she concentrates, pressing flesh forward into her Stubby Boardman t-shirt so that her orange-sized tits swell to Susan-like grapefruits.

Neville’s eyes bug out of his skull. “N-n-n-no, that’s not…”

“That’s what they’re there for, Neville,” Tonks says, shifting her bust back to its usual shape. “Believe me, I’m very clear on the concept—aside from the functional bit, tits are there to say _Whoohoo! I’m a girl! Pay attention!_ ”

Neville’s staring down at the ground.

“So it’s okay to look, you know?” She puts a hand on his knee and he jumps. “But make sure you look her in the face too, or she won’t think you actually like _her_.”

He mumbles something, shifting his wand from one hand to the other.

“Look, sorry, I’m used to Aurors—they’re pretty rough and tumble, so I don’t have to be very, you know, delicate about things. But honest—she likes you.”

“You think?” he asks, looking up puppy-like.

Tonks follows his gaze over to the paddock, where all eyes are on Bill demonstrating yet another counter-curse—all but two, brown, round and aimed straight at the boy himself. “Yeah,” Tonks says, “I think.”

Neville attempts to stand, but once again plops on his bum. “Head still hurts.”

“Yeah, Stunners’ll do that,” Tonks answers. _Tough is attractive_ , she thinks approvingly. _Struggling is cute. Tough **and** struggling? Irresistible. _“As you would know.”

Neville grunts. “Guess.” He tucks his wand into his breast pocket and pushes up to a standing position against the tree. His eyes are still downcast. “Wish… Wish I didn’t.”

“I bet.”

He sighs deeply and looks back up at the paddock; Tonks can’t be sure, but she’d bet he’s looking at the Bones girl again. “Just…” He looks thoroughly miserable.

 _Wonder why?_ “You faced some of the nastiest baddies out there, Neville, and survived. Nothing to be ashamed of.” She stands, crossing her arms, and peers into his open face. “The way I hear it, it was you and Luna kept the other four alive last year. And you were right there in the middle last month again.”

“Yeah, but…” He grimaces awkwardly. “Wish I’d been more than just the last one standing, you know? Harry and them, they were counting on me and I…”

“Neville,” she says, her hand on his shoulder, “you faced two squads of Death Eaters. You didn’t die, and you didn’t let any of your mates die. Believe me, I’d rather have you at my back than some of the plodders at MLES.”

This gets her a weak grin. “You don’t have to say that.”

“’Struth. Honest.”

He stands straighter.

She looks down at the wand sticking out of his breast pocket. “What was that Luna was saying about your wand?”

“Oh, she’s got this idea that it doesn’t suit me.” He shrugs. “But Mr. Ollivander sold this one to me to replace the one I broke… that got broken at the Ministry that night. Honest, he chose it for me himself, and he’s… He was supposed to be the best. You know Luna, once she gets an idea…”

“Yeah…” She turns her head and looks at the smooth wood—it looks familiar. “When did he sell you this?”

“The last day before he disappeared.” He doesn’t seem concerned, as if it’s a story that he’s told lots of times.

A shiver passes up her spine. “Mind if I take a gander at it?”

He takes it out, face squished in curiosity.

Gently, Tonks takes it from him. “Is this… mahogany?” The wand is just a shade above black, long and delicate-looking; the grip is carved…

“Nope. Oak, he said.”

 _Oak?_ “Too dark… Unless…” Suddenly a scene flashes before her inner eye, the way it often does when she’s on an investigation. “This… How long did it take him to find you this?”

His thick brows scrunch. “Huh. No time at all. Minute I came in, he said, ‘Ah, Mr. Longbottom, just the one,' then he grabbed it, handed it to me, Gran paid and he scooted us out. I don’t think the whole thing took five minutes.”

 _Bloody hell…_ “So…” _Oak that dark… Must be ancient._ She turns it in her hand—the base of the pommel shows a very faint uncial _R_. _Bloody…_ “Neville… Ollivander just… handed this to you? And tossed you out?”

He shrugs.

“He…” She tries to think her way around the conclusion she’s already jumped to. “Neville, Ollivander, he usually took forever to choose a wand. My first? I was in there for hours. And then, when I got this one after I was accepted into theAurors, it took nearly as long.”

“Well… I guess he knew he wanted to give me this one.”

“Yeah. I guess.” She takes a deep breath. “Was this your first new wand?”

Nodding, he suddenly looks much more like the Neville she remembers from Hogwarts, sweet and very young. “Oh, yeah. My first one was my dad’s, my gran insisted, but that’s the one—”

“The one that broke.” He nods again. “And he had this one ready when you came in? Did you have an appointment or anything?”

“Er… No. It was right at the end of the day, and we just... went in.”

End of the day? “And where did he have this?”

“Oh! It was out in the window.”

“On a pillow?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

She lets out a breath. _Bloody—_ “You might want to consider getting a new one, but if you do, don’t get rid of this, okay? It might be... important.”

“Erm, okay.” He pulls a confused, smiling face. “I think I’m ready to go back.”

“G’wan.” Tonks hands him the wand again, and he lumbers back towards the DA.

Twenty minutes later she is still trying to sort through her thoughts when a wet pair of lips closes on her right lobe and a long tongue snakes into her ear. She shivers. “Hey, Moony.”

“So quickly is the bloom fallen from the rose?” he says, lips still at her ear, making her shiver again.

“Remus,” she says, pulling him into her lap, “remember when Harry was asking you about any artifacts of Rowena Ravenclaw?” Suddenly, he is the one who is all business; she worms her hands under his robes to see just how far she can push _him_. “I think I know where one is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Hillary_CW/Cambryn, “Tonks Es Cool” — used with permission.


	15. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a special day for a special boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gen. Dark—for a bit. Non-sexualized non-con, which happens to be male-on-male, but don't get your hopes up. (I have a slash bit that's coming, I promise...)

Voldemort, Dark Lord and Immortal, observes with pleasure the scene that he has set.

The Malfoys’ playroom is suitably decked out: torches burning in the sconces, leaving flickering shadows in unnerving places; an even dozen of his Death Eaters, masked and robed, to threaten and to witness—these are the young ones, the ones who need to _see_ the Dark Lord in his mastery; and the late Lucius’s ridiculously baroque collection of toys distributed here and there. Their presence alone makes the point clear.

There is no good or evil; there is only power and those too weak—or foolish—to seek it. Lord Voldemort is neither weak nor foolish, and this night shall see the demonstration of his dominion.

Beneath him, pale and naked, the last of the Malfoys is held in place by his erstwhile servants, Crabbe and Goyle. No Cruciatus or Imperius this time; the boy is broken to his master’s will, and lies on the cold stones, whimpering on his hands and knees.

Rape is not Voldemort’s torture of choice. The fact is, he finds physical contact distasteful and sex perplexing. He takes no pleasure in the contact between his body and Draco Malfoy’s, but there are times when this sort of demonstration is useful.

In this case, the demonstration serves a three-fold purpose. Young Draco, biting his lip so hard to keep from screaming that he has drawn blood, is learning his place. The other young recruits, most of whom have spent their lives kowtowing to the Malfoy heir, learn the proper order.

And soon…

Now. Now it is time to invite the final member of the audience—the guest of honor.

Using Legilimency, the Dark Lord reaches through the connection that he has been avoiding assiduously for the past year. (He is used to voices that speak to him, dark and muttering, is Lord Voldemort—it has been his torment and his comfort from his youth. So perhaps it is not unsurprising that this one, whining, wheedling and weak, escaped his notice for so long. And since that night at the Ministry…)

He feels the touch of the boy’s mind, flaccid and ridiculous, even in sleep. _Happy birthday, Harry Potter,_ thinks Voldemort, and the other snaps to attention—asleep still but focused on the nightmare that is the Dark Lord’s gift. 

He feels the other’s mind shrink from the scene—the flame and shadows, the leather and steel, the masked faces, the smell of Draco Malfoy’s fear as his lord and master plucks from the obnoxious, insolent boy the last bit of his dignity, over and over again.

 _Do you enjoy my gift to you, Harry_? sends Voldemort, a wild joy spreading through him as he feels the other’s revulsion through their shared bond. _Could Dumbledore or your godfather have given you so much? A night in a brothel, perhaps, but what could that experience give you compared to this?_

This sort of caress Voldemort knows and takes pleasure in—the gentle caress of terror on a sentimental, feeble mind. He finds himself laughing; Draco twitches at the sound most distractingly, and the Dark Lord finds himself casting a small but painful curse reflexively, just at annoyance at the distraction.

_I have thought much over the past year on the old fool’s famous pronouncements that Love Conquers All—here is Love, Harry, sweaty, quivering and feeble. Here too is POWER…_

He feels laughter spreading through him again, but this laughter is not his own; it is hot and foreign, and Voldemort shrinks from it in spite of himself.

 _Bloody hell, Tom!_ booms the boy’s mind in his own. _You are a pathetic old bugger, aren’t you? LOVE? This isn’t love, you stupid, silly sod—it’s just bullying. Not that Malfoy hasn’t earned it mind, but there’s no power here, believe me._

“ _LOVE IS AN ILLUSION, BOY!_ ” shrieks the Dark Lord, and this time he feels many of his troops shudder along with the cringing boy against whom he has ceased to move. “ _LOVE IS AN ILLUSION AND POWER THE ONLY REALITY_!”

 _See, Tom, that’s what I mean_ , the insipid boy giggles in the Dark Lord’s mind. _You haven’t got a clue—not the slightest clue—just what the hell it is you’re talking about. Well,_ the boy thinks, his tone suddenly sharp, _you do know enough to know that the pain of the body isn’t anything next to what the heart can suffer, but you don’t know WHY, you stupid git. You haven’t any idea why the hell people would be willing to put up with the agony just for love, why someone would die for love or for its loss. But then, you’re not a person. Let me show you—_

Voldemort tries to snap shut their connection, but finds that he cannot; suddenly, a flood of… _something_ pushes through the bond, spreading like acid through his body, and he howls. Love? This is not love. This is weakness and shame and obligation and death   
—everything that he has flown from all of his life. Shrieking, he tries to reach into the other’s mind, to punish, to hurt, but against this flood he finds himself powerless as he has never been.

An image begins to resolve itself in the midst of this sheer, undifferentiated agony. _Ah!_ the Dark Lord thinks. _Fool! Show me the face of your love and I will make you suffer for this…_

The face that appears in his mind is not a pretty face—it is wall-eyed and dirty, framed in lank hair of indifferent hue. And pale white as it stares out the window at…

At a man on horseback, laughing with a pretty girl. He is tall, the man, and dark-haired, his face bright and aristocratic.

The Dark Lord knows that face. It is… It _was_ his own.

The girl at the window stares at him as he passes with such longing that it turns Voldemort’s stomach. _She…?_

 _Your mother, Tom. She knew love, even though she grew up in a home that made your orphanage look like heaven. She knew love, and she knew desire, and she knew how to inspire desire in someone else._ Another image comes faintly, absurdly through the link: Amortentia and Cauldron Cakes. _What you think you understand about love isn’t anything but the tip of the iceberg of desire, you ridiculous, pathetic wanker. Love and desire may pal about a lot, but they’re not the same thing,_ _any more than terror and pissing yourself._ The boy’s thoughts take on an amused, cheeky tone. _Speaking of which, you might want to clean Malfoy off—you’ve made a mess._

Before Tom Riddle can punish Harry Potter, can push through images of pain and suffering and true horror through their bond, the boy attacks again—that corrosive feeling of flame scorching through Tom’s mind. The Dark Lord panics, withdrawing into himself, closing off the connection between them.

Lord Voldemort, Dark Lord and Immortal, finds himself curled on the stones of the Malfoy’s torture chamber, surrounded by a mass of masked children who are shifting nervously from foot to foot. The Malfoy boy is standing among them, his grey eyes closed, his mind no longer open.

The idiot, mouth-breathing Bullstrode girl kneels beside Voldemort, holding out his robes. “You… you okay, my lord?”

The Dark Lord finds relief in the only way he knows. “ _Crucio_!” 

***

Hermione is startled from a dream in which she and Ron are running, looking for something—Harry?—by what sounds at first to be one of Harry’s not-infrequent nightmares.

She sits up.

Harry’s not screaming—he’s laughing. Maniacally, hysterically howling with laughter.

Ron, who was asleep on his stomach, startles, arms flailing, mumbling, “Whazzit?”

“It worked,” Harry says, tears streaming down his face—he is sitting up at the head of the bed, madly wiping his eyes with the bed linens.

“What worked, Harry?” asks Hermione.

He starts climbing over Ron, clambering into the tiny space between the two beds, and down towards his wardrobe. “Legilimency, it worked. Stupid bugger. Stupid git.” He starts hauling clothes out of the magically expanded wardrobe.

Ron and Hermione share a look. “Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asks.

“It’s my birthday, isn’t it!” he answers manically, throwing open the top of his trunk. “Time to get out of here!”

“It’s… two in the morning, Harry,” complains Ron—with reason, Hermione thinks.

“And no reason to stay here any more,” Harry chirps, humming _Happy Birthday_ as he begins tossing clothes into the trunk. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll head to headquarters for the rest of the night, and then we can go… go to the Burrow…”

In middle of tossing his trainers into the trunk, Harry suddenly stops. In the yellow streetlamp light that gilds the bottom edges of his face, it seems as if he’s just turned chartreuse—after standing frozen for a moment, he falls to his knees and vomits, barely finding the waste paper basket.

Hermione leaps to the foot of her bed; Ron joins her, rubbing Harry’s back. Harry heaves for what seems like forever—it is probably only a minute or two—bringing up nothing after the first go, but heaving anyway. When he is finally done, Hermione hands him a conjured glass of water; his face is pale, and bright with a sheen of sweat. He takes the glass and sips at it cautiously.

“All right, Harry?” Ron murmurs, while Hermione surreptitiously Vanishes the mess from the bottom of the bin.

“Voldemort’s birthday present for me.” He shudders. “He showed me himself… raping Malfoy.” As Harry describes the encounter, Hermione feels her own gorge rising. She has seen Death Eaters and knows what they are capable of, but to see it from inside Voldemort’s mind…

“The amazing thing,” Harry says, once he has finished, “is what a boring place his mind is. There’s barely a thought that doesn’t have to do with just staying alive.” He shakes himself and looks up at his friends. “I did see a few things that were interesting though—and I don’t think he was aware. They _were_ at Malfoy Manor, so your source was right, Ron.”

Ron shrugs.

“Both of Draco’s parents are dead—Voldemort killed them. And he doesn’t trust Snape, though I couldn’t see why. He’s found out that the locket was taken, but he thinks that was Dumbledore and me—he doesn’t know about RAB. And a group of treasure hunters apparently took Ravenclaw’s wand back years ago from its hiding spot on a Welsh mountain and sold to Mr. Ollivander.”

“The one on the pillow?” asks Ron.

“Yup. Voldemort is mad trying to find it—it disappeared the day that Ollivander did.” Harry draws his own wand and looks at it. An image of Mr. Ollivander flashes through Hermione’s mind—smiling his decidedly odd smile as he handed her the wand she still wields. Harry shudders audibly. “I think… I think the Death Eaters went to get him, to get the wand and… He was hiding at Fortescue’s. Mr. Fortescue was trying to protect him. They…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

With a flick, Harry begins Levitating clothing into his trunk. “I’m of age,” he says, his face as grim as before.

“Happy birthday, mate,” says Ron, patting him on the back.

With a smile, Hermione leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

He blinks, first at Hermione, then back at Ron, then favors them with a smile. “Thanks.”

Ron is scowling—whether at Hermione, at Harry, or at whatever it is that’s been stealing his thoughts away of late, she cannot tell. He shrugs, and then he too smiles. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far, did you?”

“Ron!”

Harry grins, patting Hermione’s forearm. “You know, I can’t say that I did.” He shrinks the contents of the trunk to make room and begins floating books and other odds and ends into it.

“Well, at least the old bugger’ll think twice before he tries to take a peek inside of _your_ head again!” Ron chortles, starting to sort out his own kit.

“We… Are we really leaving? Now?” Neither boy answers Hermione, and so she shakes her head, and begins to reverse the transformations on the beds—her bed becomes the desk again, and the boys’ bed shrinks back to a single. “Harry,” she says, as she works, “you know that this means that anyone in your thoughts… will probably be safe now.”

Both boys freeze, wands still raised. Ron’s mouth is pursed, as if he’s considering all of the implications of this change five moves ahead. Harry looks stunned.

Hermione continues, “I just thought I’d point it out, you know.”

Harry frowns. “I… I’m not sure it changes anything. I’m not sure I can risk it.”

Again Ron and Hermione lock eyes, and she knows that he is thinking what she is: either Harry will crack the minute he sees Ginny, or the next few weeks are going to be horrid.

All three trunks are packed quickly. The space under the floorboard is emptied, the bed searched under, the desk drawers sorted—nothing’s left there but Dudley’s long-discarded toys. Hedwig is out hunting and will find Harry wherever he happens to go, and Pig is back at the Burrow. “I’ve got to get Crookshanks,” Hermione says.

“He’s probably down in the sitting room,” says Ron. “He’s been shredding the bottom of the sofa.”

“Don’t wake anybody,” whispers Harry as Hermione sneaks out of the room and down the stairs—careful to step over the bottom one that she has learned from Harry’s repeated warnings and from bitter experience squeaks.

It shocks and touches Hermione that Ron was correct—Crookshanks is in fact on his back beneath the sofa, using his claws to move up and down the horrid thing, shredding the fabric underneath. It is his quiet rebellion against the tyranny of Aunt Petunia, who swore she would smash the cat flat with a skillet if she ever saw him during the visit. “Come on, Crookshanks,” Hermione hisses. “We’re getting out of here.”

Crookshanks abandons his task and trots over to Hermione, rubbing against her ankles. Clearly he is as ready to leave this place as they all are. She picks him up and retraces her steps.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she has a moment of panic—a hulking shape looms just past the door to the room they’ve shared.

The shape steps forward and resolves itself: Dudley. “What you doing?”

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. Dudley she can handle. “We’re leaving.”

“Oh.” His sleepy face squashes, so that he looks even more lumpy than usual. It’s amazing to think that he’s as much a born wizard as Harry, but Hermione doesn’t think that it’s worth telling Dudley about his Slughorn heritage at this late date. “Well, all right then,” says Dudley, and stumbles back into his room.

When Hermione enters her room, Harry and Ron have everything ready to go; Ron is holding out Hermione’s robes, to throw over her pyjamas.

“Harry,” Hermione frets as they are about to Apparate to number twelve, Grimmauld Place so that Harry can confer about tonight’s events with Remus, “shouldn’t we… Don’t you want to say goodbye or anything?”

Harry looks around the room, shakes his head and says, “No.”

Then, with a pop, they are all gone.

In his large bed, Dudley tries to understand why he is feeling anything other than happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I had planned this chapter when I first outlined the fic. However, a discussion on The Restricted Section's forums concerning Voldemort, rape and power among Metafrantic, the Grand Poobah, alchemicalchild and other equallly thoughtful and interesting people colored my writing in the first section. 
> 
> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from TBranch, detail of “Wormtail and Voldemort” — used with permission.


	16. Food for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life's what happens while you're planning menus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also happens to be my entry in the catchmysnitch November challenge; the prompt is (was) "Quick Quotes Quill."
> 
> Thanks as always to my best beta, aberforths_rug!

For breakfast, Molly thinks some bangers and fried tomatoes would be lovely—there are some slightly over-ripe ones in the garden that will be perfect for frying, and Ron's favorite is bacon, so she'll save the fresh rasher in the ice box for tomorrow for his first morning back.

She shuffles down the stairs into the kitchen as she does almost every morning, quietly humming “A Hot, Strong Cup of Your Love” under her breath. As she steps into her kitchen, she expects to see the sunrise through the window over the sink—it is one of her favorite things about this time of year. What she does not expect to see is her daughter, her head on the table, stroking the blindingly white wings of Harry's owl. “Ginny, dear!” she calls, and Ginny picks her head up.

_Crying again_. “Morning, Mum.”

“Did Hedwig bring a letter?” The answer is obvious—the bird has a piece of parchment tied to one leg.

“Yes, but she won't give it to me because it's addressed to you, and she's a brave, smart girl,” Ginny murmurs, her chin on her elbow, stroking the owl's beak, “not a silly, weak one.”

Hedwig gives Ginny a sympathetic nip on the finger before presenting her leg to Molly.

As she's opening the letter, Molly finds herself clucking, “I'm sure I don't know any silly girls in this house.”

“Not with Fleur gone,” Ginny manages with something resembling a smile.

Molly chooses neither to dignify Ginny's comment, nor to berate her for it. “Ah, good. They've already gotten out of those horrible Muggles' house. They're catching up on some sleep at headquarters, and they'll be here before lunch. Perfect.” Shepherd's pie with last night's lamb and potatoes, and some of the good tomatoes for a salad—Hermione likes her veg, and you have to use the tomatoes quickly before they go too soft even to cook with.

“Perfect,” echoes Ginny, her voice dead.

_This won't do._ “Now, Ginny, if you're going to loaf around in the kitchen, I'll have to put you to work. Go out to the garden and fetch two or three of the really ripe tomatoes—dark red and squishy. I'll start the bangers.” _And we'll have a little heart-to-heart._

Ginny pushes back from the table, her face set in a pout that can only make Molly want to smile, familiar as it is from nearly sixteen years of grumbling and rebellion from her lovely, headstrong daughter.

Once Ginny has shuffled outside, Molly goes to the icebox and takes out two pounds of sausages, and then remembers Charlie and Bill—he's got his appetite back—and takes out a third, fires up the stove, pulls out an enormous skillet, and begins to distribute the bangers; when they don't fit, she simply expands the pan with a swish of her wand. As she turns on the stove, the image of the icebox flashes across her consciousness again; chewing on a thumbnail, she walks back over and opens it again. ( _Blast. Someone's eaten the lamb—Charlie no doubt, since Bill doesn't like his meat cold anymore—nor reheated for that matter, wants it to be bloody, bless him—Ginny is barely eating and Arthur stumbled straight up to bed last night… Have to make—_ )

“Lost your brain in there, Mum?” says Ginny as she comes from the garden, arms overflowing with lovely red tomatoes.

“Well, if I find it, I'll make sure not to cook it,” responds her mother; it is an old family joke, one that the twins started, and each says her lines almost without inflection. “Now slice those tomatoes up nice and thin on the cutting board.”

Ginny pulls a face as she drops the tomatoes and goes to grab the kitchen knife from the drawer. “You could have had these in slices in two flicks.”

“But when it comes to cooking—”

“—if you can't do it by hand, you won't be able to do it well by wand,” Ginny grumbles—again, they've had this conversation a thousand times. “I don't see why I should care. Maybe I'll find someone who can cook.” Her face goes suddenly soft.

_Or maybe you'll cook together,_ Molly thinks.

Passing her wand over the skillet, she turns the bangers, which have started to sizzle.

“This'd be a lot easier if you'd had me pick the ones that _weren't_ overripe,” says Ginny.

“Those won't fry properly—watch your fingers as you're cutting, dear, I can reattach a tip but a whole finger means a trip to St. Mungo 's and neither of us wants to spend the day there.” Molly places three ends of stale bread into a paper bag and closes it; with a quick twist, she atomizes the loaves to crumbs. ( _Turn the bangers again. A handful of parsley, a dash of salt…_ )

“Wish I could just fly away,” mutters Ginny, barely audible over the sizzle of the sausages, the sound of the blade against the board and the _slurp_ of the tomatoes that she's slicing.

Molly turns to look at her daughter. She is talking to Hedwig, who is still perched on the table, listening sympathetically. Ginny's face is nearly as pale as the bird's plumage.

“Funny,” Molly says somewhat perversely as she turns the bangers one last time, and turns on the warming rack in the oven, “I would have thought you'd have been all excited today.” When Ginny doesn 't bite, the mother continues, “After all, it's Harry's birthday. You haven't seen him in over a month. He and Hermione and your brother should be arriving. It's only natural—”

Ginny's eyes narrow. “Why should I care?”

Molly Weasley stares over her shoulder—Ginny seldom plays these sorts of childish games. “Bring those tomatoes here,” she orders, and her daughter complies, though not without a token show of exasperation. _Turn the sausages into the warming tray, into the oven; bread crumbs on the tomatoes and into the skillet—sausage grease is better for frying tomatoes than butter or bacon grease._ “In the first place, Ginny dear, you should care because you've _cared_ where Harry is and when he's going to be _here_ since before you left for school.”

Ginny slumps back into her seat, sullenly silent.

“In the second place, if you think that flibberty-gibbet Sarabeth Fawcett didn't write a 'Guess what…!' letter home to her mum the minute you and Harry began courting, and if you think Gertrude Fawcett didn't stick her head in the Floo to ask me all about it before the owl had left her house again, then you've been gone from home for far too long.”

Sitting up straight, mouth wide, Ginny suddenly looked much more like the girl she had once been. “You… knew?”

“I knew,” her mother said with as little smugness as she could manage. _Just as I know that the two of must have had some sort of falling out_ , she thinks _, or I'd have seen a very different Ginevra Weasley this past month._ “In the third place, you've had a wrapped present for the boy in your sock drawer since a week after you came back.”

“Mum!”

Flipping the tomatoes—( _just right, browned just a touch, the breading crispy but not dry or burned_ )—she continues with some satisfaction. “If you don't want me to find things, Ginny dear, you shouldn't hide them in your dresser. I don't go _looking_ for what you've hidden, but if I'm to keep your clothing organized—”

There's a loud thump from the doorway. “We wouldn't want Sparks's knickers in a bunch!” says Charlie enthusiastically. “Morning, Gin. Morning, Mum! Beautiful bird.”

“She's Harry's,” Molly and her daughter say in unison.

“Oh, is it now!” Charlie answers very knowingly, clumping over to the table. “What's for breakfast? Smells—”

“Charles Galahad Weasley! Did you eat what was left of the leg of lamb in the icebox?”

At the sight of his mother rounding on him, wand in hand, Charlie seems to shrink into the chair. “Not me, Mum! I swear! I might have had a couple of plums, but I swear… Maybe it was Kingsley, he was on duty last night, or Bill, or—”

“It was us,” call two voices from the doorway. “Closed up late last night,” continues Fred—or is it George? “Had to make sure Verity and Lee were all set up, and there was a special order we had to finish up, so we didn't get back to the family manse till after midnight” says George—or is it Fred? “We were starving,” they finish together.

“Fine!” says their mother, sorting the tomatoes onto a platter and filleting a loaf of fresh bread with a slash of her wand, “then after breakfast _you two_ can go into the butcher's and fetch me two pounds of his best ground lamb, thank you very much. And _you_ can pay for it, since you like to tell us how well business is going!”

The twins swoop around her, taking sausages, tomatoes, bread and plates and walking them to the table with exaggerated wobbles, pretending to be just on the edge of dropping them, just to take the mickey— “It would be…”

“Our greatest pleasure…”

“Mother dearest!”

Bill and Arthur shuffle in, both blinking. “Merlin,” says Bill with a grin, “who dragged these two clowns in?”

“Must have been the bird,” says Charlie with a fond smile at Harry's owl.

Molly hands her husband a hot mug of conjured tea—with all the chatter, she wasn't able to brew it for him fresh, which he never complains about but seems just wrong to her.

“Ah!” says her husband apparently taking in both his morning cuppa and Hedwig. “A letter from the Surrey contingent?”

“From Hermione, saying they're not in Surrey any more—they'll be here by lunch.” _If the twins can be trusted to provide the supplies for lunch_.

“What?” asks one of the twins—really, she wishes they didn't delight in confusing people so, Gideon and Fabian were always so careful to dress differently—“No billy-doo from any admirers for our Ginny-kins? Shocking!”

Ginny threatens her brother with a sausage on a fork. “That's not funny, Fred. And I don't need a wand to make your nose pay for your lack of tact.”

Fred—if it is Fred—holds up his hands. “George, not Fred, and don't waste Mum's good food!”

“You're Fred, not George,” answers Ginny, slit-eyed. “And it would serve you right.”

“Sit!” Molly calls to them all. “Eat, before it gets cold!”

***

By the time that Molly sees Ron, Hermione and Harry wink into existence out her window by the broom shed, the twins—cowed by the two Weasley females—have run their errand with unusual speed and an unheard-of lack of hijinks. The pie is baking, the tomato salad is sliced and ready.

And Ginny hasn't moved from the table, except to change into pair of tattered jeans and an oversized t-shirt. When Molly began to suggest perhaps changing into something a bit more _pretty,_ she was favored with Ginny's most obdurate glare. “Why?” was her only answer. Aside from that, she has barely spoken all morning.

Even with a mother's eyes, however, Molly can see that Ginny's attempt to appear as un-interested as possible in her own appearance is a lost cause—hair loose, clothes loose, face smudged with tomato seeds, she still looks quite lovely, as Molly is certain Harry will appreciate.

“Ginny dear,” she begins, as she watches the twins and Bill help the new arrivals bring their things to the house— _no, it's the three of them, levitating their own trunks, Merlin, they're of age—_ “whatever it is with Harry, it'll all—”

Whatever reassurance mother might have provided daughter is shunted aside as Ron and Hermione both squawk in surprise and a huge shadow zooms across the lawn.

“ _CHARLIE!_ ” Molly screams out of the window. The twins and Bill laugh at the youngsters' shock as Charlie and Norbert flutter in for a landing in the paddock.

When all of the children—those that are hers and those that might as well be (and perhaps some day will be)—are happily ensconced around the table, digging into shepherd's pie ( _Just a pinch of cinnamon, makes the whole thing warmer_ ), Molly launches into her second son for the second time that day. “Muggles might have seen! Nearly gave the children a heart attack!”

Charlie laughs his open, good-natured laugh and shovels more potatoes in. “Aw, Mum, they were fine, and besides, this lot's not frightened of wee Norbert, are you?”

“Wee Norbert!” says Ron, aghast. “He may have been _wee_ six years ago, but he's a bloody monster!”

“Ron, language,” mutter Molly and Hermione together.

Charlie snorts. “Oh, yeah, he's just a young'un. You should see some of the _fully grown_ dragons. Remember the Horntail you went against at the Tri-wizard, Harry? Now _there_ was a dragon!”

“Yes,” says Harry quietly. “I remember.” These are the first words that Molly has heard him speak since he came in the door, stared at a too-nonchalant

Ginny like a thirsty man at a glass of water… and sat purposefully at the opposite end of the table.

“I bet you do!” says one of the twins, who are joined in a raucous round of laughter by Bill.

“What has you in such a good mood, Bill?” asks Ginny. To Hermione—and presumably to Ron and Harry—she explains, “He's been right foul all month.”

One of the twins—probably Fred, since he's the more theatrical of the two—wraps a napkin around his head and flutters his eyelashes. “'E is 'appy because 'is _fiancée_ ees coming back to thees side of the Channel thees week.”

Bill grabs the napkin, but continues to grin.

“As well he _should_ be happy,” says Molly, setting the pans to soak in the sink, “seeing the girl he's marrying after over a month.” ( _The roast for tonight will need to go into the oven—_ )

“Dunno, Mum,” says the other twin, “think I'd be running for the hills if a whole clan of in-laws was descending on _me_.”

“Just goes to show that you're still an immature git, George,” says Ginny, eyes not shifting from her plate.

“It's Fred, by the way, and is that a way to talk to your favorite brother?”

“You're George,” says Harry, who is sitting at his side, “and it sounds as if that's exactly how you wanted her to talk.”

“ _Traitor_!” cry the twins together, and everyone laughs as they return to finishing their meal.

“So, Charlie, aren't you worried that Death Eaters will attack you while you're in the air?” asks Hermione.

Charlie grins, always happy to talk about flying or dragons, happiest it seems when talking of both. “They can _try_. They have, a few times. But Norbert can fly higher and faster than most brooms, and Harry here can tell you just how resistant a dragon's hide is to most spells. He's got claws below and flame and teeth in front, a tail with two-foot spikes at the back and me casting spells up top. Twice they've tried to get the drop on us and twice—” He slams his hand down on the table. “— _splat!_ And you should see what his flame does to Dementors—the only thing hot enough to destroy them…”

As they finish their meal, as everyone begins clearing the table, Harry and Ginny remain seated. Taking the hint, Molly says, “Ron, you take Harry's trunk up to your room—with everyone here for the wedding soon, you'll have to share again, dear, I'm sorry—and Bill, why don't you take Hermione up to Ginny's room so that she can get herself settled. Charlie, go get that beast back to its pen before someone sees it, and Fred and George—”

“Degnome the garden!” cries one—George, if Ginny and Harry are to be believed.

“In preparation for Harry's birthday tea!” says the other—Fred.

“Yes,” says their mother, scowling. The older boys all scatter to their jobs—Bill giving Molly a wink as he leaves with Hermione, wagging his head at the boy and girl who remain uncomfortably at the table.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry begins, but she will have none of that.

“You two clear the rest of the plates and get them cleaned—we have a number of guests coming for the tea, Harry dear, and I need everything to be ready for them. Do you know any household spells? I'm sure Ginny could talk you through some useful ones while I get tonight's roast into the oven.”

As she dresses the prime rib in the roasting pan, Molly watches as the two awkward children begin to clean up, Harry chivalrously and stubbornly refusing to use magic because Ginny can't. Wordlessly they move all of the plates and platters into the sink.

At last Ginny has had enough. “Don't be daft, Harry.”

Harry stiffens, but concedes, Scourgifying the dishes in a trice and Levitating them over to Ginny, who wipes and stacks them. Harry then floats them into the cupboard.

The silence stretches on as Molly continues to prepare the roast as quietly and slowly as she can.

Finally, once the bowl in which the pie was baked is clean and put away, Ginny asks, as if there's nothing more behind it but idle curiosity, “So, Harry… how's your birthday been?”

Molly can all but hear him shrug. “All right. It… It's nice to be here.” Silence. “I had a visit from our friend.”

“Our…?” Ginny's voice drops in pitch and in volume. “Oh. Oh, Harry.”

“It's all right. I gave better than I got. I don't think the old git'll be dropping in any more.”

Another silence. “Lucky you.”

It suddenly occurs to Molly just who they are talking about so jocularly, and her blood runs cold.

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

A long silence settles, and five minutes earlier Molly would have patiently let it thicken, but now You-Know-Who's shadow has chilled her soul and so she blurts, “So, Harry, you'll be joining the DA exercises now that you're here?”

Again the silence stretches—taut as taffy, this time.

“DA…?” Harry asks at last, his voice oddly high.

“Ginny and some of her friends—” Molly begins, but her daughter flashes her a look that could cut overripe tomatoes and finishes. “Luna and I thought it would be a good idea if we did some training this summer. We asked some of the Order folk to teach us. It's not a big deal.”

Harry stares at her.

Molly once again rushes in to fill the vacuum. “Bill's been teaching them about breaking curses, and Charlie and Hagrid have worked with them on dark creatures and such; I've taught some healing and Nymphadora and Remus have been teaching defense…”

Harry continues to stare at Ginny, who is studiously cleaning her fingernails.

“At first it was just the girls and Neville,” Molly burbles, studding the meat with garlic, “but then the Bones girl joined them, and that nice Anthony Goldstein, the Patil twins and the Creevey brothers, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, a lot of them will be here this after—”

“You might have asked,” Harry snaps at Ginny.

“ _Asked_?” Ginny says, her eyes growing wide as her nostrils narrow—never a good sign. “What, _you_ were the head of the DA, so the rest of us have to wait for your _permission_ —”

“This isn't about _me_ , it's about…” Two large, red circles sprout in the center of Harry's cheeks. “Do you have any idea how much of target this makes you? The whole idea was to keep you _safe_!”

“ _SAFE_?” growls Ginny. “My hand on Mum's bloody clock has been pointing at _Mortal Peril_ since before you and I started going out, Harry, or hadn't you noticed? It was pointing there when I got home after you decided I was too _weak_ and _delicate_ to be trusted, and it's pointing there now.”

“Ginny dear—” Molly says, trying to stop the falling troll.

“I just thought it might be a good idea if I learned how to be less of a bloody damsel in distress so the bloody _hero_ didn't have to bloody _rescue_ me all of the bloody time.” Ginny stands abruptly. “If there's nothing else you need help with, Mum, I'm going to go up and make sure Hermione doesn't totally take over my _sock drawer_.”

She stomps out of the room and up the stairs, and neither Molly nor Harry move an inch. ( _How does someone so little make so much noise…?_ )

Molly turns back to Harry, who is staring at his hands. “I just… I want her to be safe.”

It hurts to hear him sound so miserable and forlorn, even as a part of Molly's heart swells to hear how close this stoic boy's feelings for her daughter are to the surface. “Harry dear,” she says, sitting beside him, “you saw what happened when I tried to get rid of that Boggart at headquarters.”

He ducks his chin and nods, eyes still focused on his palms. “I just…” He shudders and nods. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley, I saw.”

Molly remembers only now that one of the dead figures whose shape the horrid creature took was not a redhead—had black, forever-messy hair, round glasses and a scar. “Since that day, I've watched my children survive brush after brush with _mortal peril_ —poison, curses, broken bones, Death Eaters, werewolves, my Charlie gadding about with a monster that could eat him for a snack at any moment.” She pats Harry on the shoulder lightly. “I want you _all_ safe. But nothing I do seems to make it so. So it seems to me I'll rest easier if they can defend themselves.”

Harry gives a long, moist sigh. “I guess that's true.” He stands. “Mrs. Weasley, I…” He looks to the stairs. “I've been up since two this morning. If it's all right, I think I need a bit of a lie-down.”

“Of course, Harry dear.” Again, she pats his arm. “Your birthday tea is at four.”

He nods. “And… Luna's coming over at three to interview us.”

“Oh,” Molly says. “How nice.”

***

The fact of the matter is that Luna Lovegood gives Molly Weasley the collywobbles. She hates this about herself—hates that she dreads seeing her late friend's daughter and her daughter's friend walking up the way from the village, but there's something about the odd blonde girl that makes Molly's skin crawl. Her pale, buggy eyes, perhaps, or her airy voice, or the very peculiar way that she used to look at Ron and—lately—stares at Ginny.

Yet she's been Ginny's good friend for years, has fought by Ron's side and kept Molly's babies alive. And so for their sakes and for her one-time neighbor Celestia she welcomes this unsettling girl into her home.

As she sets out the squash and the shandy for the party on the table in the garden—( _not everyone likes butterbeer, and there's plenty of that in the tub full of ice beneath the table_ )—Molly watches as Luna sits down with Harry in the kitchen. Apparently Mercury has invested in his daughter's new career: instead of the tattered raven's quill that she wrote with when she interviewed the others, she now sits, hands slowly making a daisy chain, as a chartreuse quill scratches away on the parchment before her.

Harry alternates between looking at the quill with unmitigated loathing and looking at Luna with the fierce, open trust that Molly has seen on that face before—with her children.

“Bloody, buggering hell,” hisses one of the twins.

“Language, George,” snaps Molly. Her son is stand there, reading the August edition of _The Quibbler_ , the table that he was supposed to be placing drifting forgotten above his head. “And get that table down before it falls on someone.”

“Right,” he answers, Levitating the table into position while continuing to read. “And… it's Fred.”

Given the uncharacteristic seriousness of his expression, she'll take him at his word. “What is that?”

“The new _Quibbler_. Loony brought it over and it's got…” He looks up. “Did you know that You-Know-Who was raised by Muggles? That he was a half-blood?”

“I knew it,” says a sharp, Scottish burr. Minerva greets them both with a smile that is as understated as the muted tartan of her traveling cloak, which she is carrying over her forearm. “Mr.Weasley. Molly.”

“Minerva! How nice to see you,” Molly says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me take your cloak.”

Minerva hands it over, her smile broadening slightly. “I apologize for arriving early for the festivities, Molly. I was hoping to speak to our three prodigals.”

“Well,” Molly answers, “Harry is in the kitchen, but he's being interviewed by Luna Lovegood, Merlin help us. I think that I saw Ron and Hermione heading over toward the pond.”

“Ah. I think perhaps I shall wait for them to return, then,” Minerva answers. “In answer to your question, Mr. Weasley, yes, I knew Tom Riddle before he claimed to be any kind of lord. Butter wouldn't melt… But yes, he was an orphan, raised by Muggles.”

“Like Harry,” mutters Fred.

“In every way but the ones that matter,” answers his mother. Having conjured a coat rack and deposited Minerva's cloak there, she offers her guest a drink.

“Something cool would be lovely; I'm quite parched. Summer seems finally to have arrived.”

Molly shares a knowing smile with the older woman. “Yes, something seems to be dissipating that dreadful fog we've been suffering through. Now I seem to remember you having a fondness for Aberforth's oatmeal stout?”

“Oh, just the thing, Molly, do you have some?”

It always does Molly's heart good to delight someone as inured to delight as Minerva McGonagall. “Just in the pantry.” Walking toward the door into the kitchen, she calls over her shoulder, “And no, Fred, that treacle tart you're about to try to jinx isn't the one for the party. I transfigured it to give you something to focus your efforts on.”

Eyebrows rising, Minerva whispers, “Transfigured? Out of what?”

“The twins' underpants,” whispers Molly back, evoking a rare chuckle from the dour Scot.

In the kitchen, she calls out, “I'm sorry to interrupt—just coming through.”

“It's perfectly all right, Mrs. Weasley,” says Luna. “I think we're finished.”

“Good, then,” Molly says, trying not to meet the girl's disturbing gaze. “By the by, congratulations on the article that appeared today.”

“Article?” Harry asks, still staring at the Quick Quotes Quill.

“The one about No-One-Knows-Who being actually a half-blood—the one you suggested, Harry.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “You… You wrote that?”

Molly pulls out a bottle of oatmeal stout for Minerva and another of chocolate stout for Remus.

“Oh, yes. Daddy was very excited to be able to run another Voldemort story, they sell even better than the Heliopath series did.”

Harry stands. “I bet.”

Luna smiles vaguely. “Oh. Look. The DA.”

Through the window, Molly sees a string of teens walking up the way, most of them familiar from the meetings: the Patils, Neville Longbottom, the tall Thomas boy. Ginny—who has been hiding all afternoon—walks up and waves to them all, giving the apparently astonished Muggleborn a quick hug.

Harry stiffens.

Luna babbles blithely on. “Oh, how nice that everyone's here for your party. Ginny has been looking forward to this all summer.”

Molly doesn't blame Harry for not looking happy at the pronouncement. And she intends to have a discussion with her daughter.

Hermione Granger is talking intently to Neville Longbottom; the lovely, ungainly boy is blinking furiously. He plucks his wand out of his pocket and hands over to Hermione, who looks it over. As Hermione mutters, examining the wand, Neville frowns.

Ron peers on at them. He too is frowning.

“Come on, Harry, I'm sure everyone will want to see you,” says Luna, taking the glowering boy by the hand and all but dragging him out of the door.

_Silly girl,_ thinks Molly. _No doubt the article is drivel._ Without meaning to, she looks down at the parchment, over which the green quill still floats.

> _The color green has a bad reputation in wizarding Britain—it is associated with serpents and with the Killing Curse, with death and with deception._
> 
> _Harry Potter's eyes are green—famously green. They have been compared variously with emeralds, with jade and with freshly picked toads. Yet when he discusses the events of the night of his mentor's death, those eyes darken to a color more like the leaves of the Dark Forest on an autumn day, or the sea after a storm….  
>  _

Molly Weasley blinks. Not such drivel after all.

By the time that Molly joins the party, much of the Order and most of the DA members who have been coming to Burrow are there, most of them swarming around Harry, who is smiling wanly as each person wishes him well. Molly follows his eyes to where they are fixed: Ginny.

Bringing the _real_ treacle tart out to the table, Molly sidles up behind her daughter. “Ginevra Weasley,” she whispers, “if I ever see you do anything like that again to yourself, to Harry, or to a nice young man like Dean Thomas, I will show you that you are not too old for me to take over my knee.”

“I…” Ginny bristles, then gives in. “Yes, Mum. I just…”

“You wanted to make a point to a thick-headed young man,” Molly suggests.

“Yes, Mum,” Ginny mutters, taking the tart from her.

“Make sure to take away the one that's already on the table—and don't get them confused. I don't want anyone eating that one,” says her mother, quickly removing and Banishing her apron.  
  


***  
  


By the time the guests have started to go home, Molly is feeling a bit more relaxed—the twins' pranks were limited to a few Cheering Chews augmenting the laughter that was already spreading through the crowd; the sight of Minerva McGonagall giggling like a schoolgirl is one she will cherish always, though she won't be telling the twins that.

And Harry has cheered up as well, apparently without any assistance from Fred or George. Seeing all of his friends seems to have reminded him of _something_ —that he's not alone, no doubt. And the small box that Ginny slipped into his hand after all of the other presents were opened. Soon thereafter, Molly saw him wearing a tiny locket.

The only sad news wasn't unexpected: an owl from Arthur saying that he wouldn't be home until late.

That, and Ron, who has said barely a word since he came home.

The prime rib comes out perfectly—all that Molly has to do is take it out of the oven and the Weasley boys begin to congregate in the kitchen. “Bill. Charlie. Table, in. Fred, George, plates in and clean. Ginny, Hermione, Harry, bring the rubbish over to the Vanishing Cabinet.” Hermione flinches, but Harry and Ginny accept the assignment with silence. “Ron, get the silver.”

Everyone scatters, and suddenly Molly is alone with her youngest son for the first time since Christmas. She pulls him into tight hug. “You're looking peaky, Ronnie.”

“You always think that,” grumbles Ron, pulling free, and getting the flatware out of the drawer by hand.

Molly notes that his ears are pinkening. “So, dear, what was it like, living with Harry's relatives?”

“Awful,” says her son. “Honest, if Dad spent even a day there, he wouldn't go on about Muggles anywhere near so much.”

“And how is Harry doing?” Molly begins preparing the _jus_ , and Levitates the horseradish into a serving bowl. When he doesn't answer, she turns and sees him leaning against the counter, hanging his head. “Ron?”

He sighs. “Fine. He's fine. Worried.”

“Oh?” She turns back to her preparations. “Did he… talk about Ginny?”

“Mum.”

She sighs. ( _Can't blame me for trying_.) “And Hermione?”

Ron turns toward her, and his face looks like anything but the open, happy boy she knows.

“What is it, Ron?”

“Oh, Mum…” Suddenly, he is hugging her—sniffling on the top of her head. “Mum, what do I do?”

“What is it, Ronnie? What's happened? Did something—?”

“I don't know, Mum, I don't know. How…?” He gives a half-sob—always her emotional one, Ron. “I like Hermione, Mum, I mean, I _like_ her, but…”

“You think she doesn't like you?” ( _Silly boy_.)

“Dunno, maybe, but…” His jaw is working. “I don't… I don't feel like I deserve…”

Suddenly it all seems clear. “This is about that other girl, isn't it?” She is not surprised when he stiffens.

“Other…?”

“The Brown girl?”

He collapses against her. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's it,” he mumbles. “I mean, how can you know…? If you've made a… If you don't know?"

“If you don't know?” Molly prompts, uncertain exactly what he means, though she can venture a good guess—hasn't she been watching her youngest son spar with Hermione Granger for years? “That you care for someone?”

He shifts uncertainly against her. “Yeah. That. And also, you know...”

“If she cares for you?” ( _Silly boy._ )

“Erm... Yeah. That. And...” He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“And?” When he doesn't speak, she gives him a quick squeeze—he hasn't let her hold him like this in years. “Ron, you know what I've always said. If you follow your heart—”

“—good things will follow you,” he finishes, sounding strangely glum. “But what if... Mum, I've done some—”

There is a loud _crack_ , and the long table appears in the middle of the room, flanked by the twins. "Table's in!" call two matched voices.

“Could have splinched us all!” shouts their mother, but in all honesty she is as angry that they interrupted a rare moment of candor from Ronald as the fact that they Apparated such a large piece of furniture blindly into a room. The moment is lost, however, and the whole family bustle in, jobs completed or near completed. Harry and Hermione are whispering very intently with Remus and Nymphadora; Ginny scowls at them.

“Set the table, Ron, Ginny,” says Molly with a sigh, releasing her gangly son.  
  


***  
  


As Bill carves and Charlie serves out—saving the well-done end piece for himself and the bloodiest middle piece for his elder brother—Molly sits at the foot of the table and considers the fact that this dinner would be perfect but for three things: the pall that the war casts over them all, even the twins; Arthur's absence; and Percy's continued estrangement.

The table is full, the two missing Weasleys replaced by Harry and Hermione, and the guest spots taken up by the Lovegood girl, who is sitting between Ginny and a very quiet birthday boy, and by Remus and Nymphadora. A year ago, Molly loathed the awful pink mop of hair the girl wears, but a year of its absence has taught her to appreciate what it means: the girl's spirit is back, and she keeps them all smiling, teasing Bill and even Charlie mercilessly, even as she keeps one arm hooked around Remus's elbow.

Her children all look... so grown up. Even Ginny, who is chewing on her lip as she pokes at her food, and Ron who eats as energetically as ever, whatever it is that's troubling him.

Once the meal has progressed—( _Turnips just a touch underdone_ )—the chatter has settled down and Molly can feel the attention of the assembled Weasleys turning on their youngest brother and his friends. But the three refuse to be drawn into any discussion of their month among Muggles. “So Ron,” says one of the twins, who have been playing musical chairs all evening to keep from being identified, “tell us you at least pranked Harry's blubbery walrus of a cousin before you left!”

As Hermione frets and the boys frown, Luna Lovegood chooses to answer for them. “No, George, they wouldn't do that.”

George—if George it is—goggles at the strange blonde. “You too?” he says.

His brother joins in, raising his knife in a mock warding gesture. “I mean, we're used Ginny always knowing, and Harry, but how can _you_ tell the difference?”

Luna purses her lips, cocks her head and stares at Fred—if Fred it is. “I'm not sure,” she says finally. The entire table has fallen silent. “It seems to me odd that anyone would be confused,” she continues eventually. “If there were a large black cat and a small black dog, you wouldn't mistake them, would you?”

The table laughs, and Molly serves the left-over tart for pudding. No one seems to mind having some more.  
  


***  
  


After supper, the boys and Ginny go out for an evening Quidditch match. Remus and Tonks—( _Why she insists when she has such a lovely first...?_ )—join them, and Luna announces that she would announce the match, though no one is listening, since Hermione has begged off.

As Molly finishes putting away the last of the dinner—( _a plate in the warming tray for Arthur_ )—Hermione helps a bit, but finally simply sits at the table.

As a mother, Molly has learned when to talk, when to listen, and when to encourage conversation. “So,” she says, “were the Muggles dreadful?”

Hermione looks up, smiling thoughtfully. “Not particularly” she answers. “The funny thing is, it turns out that the Dursleys are no more Muggles than I am.” And she proceeds to explain that Vernon Dursley's mother was in fact a squib by the name of—Merlin help us—Beatrice Slughorn _._ “Which explains the level of their hatred for anything even vaguely smacking of magic,” she says. “Classic inferiority complex.”

“I see,” mutters Molly as she looks through the larder ( _three pounds of bacon—Ron will eat nearly a pound on his own, the dear..._ ). She doesn't see, but she doesn't really care much. “But the three of you weren't uncomfortable, shut into such tight quarters, trapped in that house—?”

“In that _room_.”

“You shared...?” Molly stutters, dropping an egg as she turns.

Hermione's eyes fly wide. “Not that we weren't always very _careful,_ ” Hermione ejaculates. She adds with great emphasis. “The boys were always perfect gentlemen.”

“Hmm,” Molly responds as she Vanishes the egg and wipes up the sticky residue with a damp cloth. “Even so, that must have been terribly... awkward. Those awful... Dursleys.”  
  


“Yes,” agrees Hermione, who rarely has an unkind word for anyone. “It was all right—the boys are both my friends, we know each other so well, but...”

“Yes,” says Molly, trying to imagine those boys sharing a room with a girl. “I'm sure the place was a pigsty, and that must have been the least of it.”

Hermione nods; she is wringing her hands beneath the table.

“What? Did something... happen?” Molly asks, though she isn't sure she wants to know the answer.

Hermione sniffles and shakes her head. “No. Nothing at all.”

“Did Ron... Did either of the boys... _do_ anything?” Molly whispers to the girl. “Or say anything?”

Again, Hermione shakes her head. Through the window, past the bushy-haired silhouette, Molly can see the Quidditch match proceeding against the sunset. “No!” Hermione says. “Nothing!” Hermione bites her lips and looks at Mrs. Weasley pleadingly.

Molly considers the girl. “And you wanted something to happen.”

Hermione's expression is unreadable but certainly not happy.

Time to brew some tea.

“Hermione,” Molly says as she sits with the two steaming mugs, “our Ron believes he's done something. Something wrong. To you. And you know that boy as well as anyone does; once he's fixed his mind on something, it takes giants with towropes to get him to move.”

With a sad chuckle, Hermione nods. “I suppose I´ll just have to speak to Hagrid and his brother” she says.  
  


***  
  


The Lovegood girl is long gone, and Remus has returned to headquarters, while Tonks is walking the Burrow's _perimeter_ , as she calls it. The twins are back in London, Bill and Charlie are in their childhood rooms, the youngest boys fell asleep on the sitting room couch and had to be herded upstairs, and the two girls went to bed with nowhere near the giggling that Molly would have anticipated.

Arthur's hand on the clock finally makes its brief evening wiggle from _Mortal Peril_ to _Traveling_ and back. When he comes in, droopy-eyed and bedraggled, Molly silently takes his cloak, hands him a mug of hot, fresh-brewed tea, and leads him to the table. His meat isn't as juicy nor his vegetables as crisp as he likes, but he doesn't seem to mind; he eats contentedly.

Molly shares his silent ease at the end of a long day.

“How was the party?” he asks at last.

“Lovely,” she answers. “It's nice to have the children back.”

He nods, eyes barely open.

“Off with us,” says Molly Weasley, _née_ Prewett. “To bed.” ( _Peaches ripe, I think. Perhaps a pie for afters..._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is Antosha, “Plums in the Icebox” — the words come from... somewhere.


	17. Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's got a plan. Or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and Give & Take (chapter 20) were originally stand-alone stories — I've already posted them. But I adapted them for this fic.
> 
> Warnings: First time teen sexuality—though not too heavy. Fluff—though not too sweet. XD
> 
> Thanks as always to my best beta, aberforths_rug!

Through three days, they barely talked. Ginny realized almost immediately that she wasn’t really _angry_ with the silly boy—there are simply some things he needs to remember, even if she has to hit him on the head a few times to make it happen. Still, she can't seem to get him to stay anywhere near her. He's constantly disappearing, off whispering with Ron or Remus or Hermione. Insufferable.

Today’s DA session was the worst. Though Ron and Hermione joined in, Harry refused, standing outside of the paddock like a bloody specter. There were some new people today—Glady Harbottle, who’s an acquaintance of Terry’s, is their first Slytherin—but Ginny doubts they’ll be back any time soon. Harry did such an excellent job of giving everyone the creeps, even Bill and Tonks, that the session broke up early. When she started to go over and talk to him about it, he wafted away. Git.

Since Luna walked her back to her room, suggesting that Harry may have fallen victim to a particularly virulent strain of Wrackspurt, Ginny has been working out just how to get the boy to snap out of it.

After hours of plotting silently—through tea, through dinner—Ginny settles on two plans: A and B. As Hermione snuffles away daintily in her bed, Ginny decides that she should start with A and see where that gets her. That still leaves her Plan B. As a fallback.

On the first day, she just stands near him. True, it is the plan, but honestly, she needs to do it—needs to be near him again, to smell his Harry scent and remind herself what being near him is like.

Not too close. Arm’s length. Behind him. To the side.

The most gratifying thing is that he clearly knows _exactly_ where she is. Though their eyes never make contact and he never so much as turns his head towards her, she can’t help but see the way his breath catches when she moves closer and the way he deflates when she moves further away. In a funny way, it was the sexiest thing he has ever done to her, that unwitting, unwilling awareness.

So far, the plan is working.

On the second day, she starts to brush by him—never _quite_ touching, and certainly not flesh-to-flesh, but close fly-bys that ruffle his shirtsleeves and muss his eternally mussed hair. It makes her smile when he begins to flinch.

Still they have not spoken more than the most banal of pleasantries or practicalities—the passing of food at dinner, the exchange of bathroom schedules. Still they have not looked one another in the eye since his birthday.

On the third day, she moves further away, as much for her own sanity as to move her project forward. His scent, his proximity—she’s going to lose all sense of discipline soon, and she needs to do this _right_.

Now, however, she keeps her eyes upon him at all times. At meals. While they help Ginny’s mother prepare the garden for the wedding, moving some bushes, taking out the now-harvested tomato vines and filling in gnome holes, her eyes never leave his face, studying it for hints and clues—and for pure aesthetic pleasure.

At first, he doesn’t notice. A number of times at the breakfast table, he catches her eye, then glances away, looking as if he doesn’t want to be caught. As they work through the morning, he starts to look puzzled; it is gratifying, in a way, to realize just how often he has been looking at her, and amusing to watch his perplexity that she is looking right back at him every single time.

At lunch, he stares resolutely at his plate, and mutters to Ron in monosyllables.

That afternoon, Ginny’s mum sends them all up to their various rooms to clean so as to present the most cheerful possible face to theDelacours, whom she is now eager to please.

Ginny’s room is opposite the loo. As she remakes her bed—Hermione puttering along beside Ginny, doing her work without magic too ‘just to be fair’—Ginny sees the door to the toilet open, sees a familiar head of untamed black hair. Her eyes stay on him and he seems to feel her stare; he looks up.

They hold eye contact for what feels like hours, though it probably only lasts thirty seconds. Harry’s amazing, beautiful, shocking green eyes slide from surprise to longing to pleading before he blinks and disappears.

Ginny gasps as if she has been holding her breath the entire time—which, come to think of it, she probably has.

“Ginny,” Hermione says, “you’re driving him mad.”

“I know,” answers Ginny, feeling what she thinks of as her Bill smile well up—not as open and guileless as Charlie’s or Ron’s, nor as patently wicked as the twins’. “That’s the idea.”

Hermione isn’t having any. “Ginny, you know how much you mean to him. You know how it’s killing him not to be with you.”

Ginny stares down at her hands, at the calluses where a year’s worth of constant practice with Quaffles toughened her fingers and her palms. “I know.”

“Then please, Ginny, don’t be cruel to him.” Hermione’s eyes too are focused on Ginny’s most unfeminine hands. “Please.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” Ginny says. “He’s being such a git. I just… need to remind him why he needs to come back. And to remind myself, I guess, just what it is I’ve promised to wait for.”

Hermione doesn’t seem pleased with the answer, but she accepts it.

As she lies in bed that night beside her friend, Ginny thinks of the look in his eyes, that long, hungry look. Unable to sleep, unable to get the hot weight of that gaze out of her mind, Ginny gently touches herself, fingers beneath the huge oldGrunnings t-shirt that she filched from the rubbish two years back.

On the fourth morning, Ginny begins to touch _him_.

She puts her hand on his shoulder before she sits beside him at breakfast and he drops a butter dish—the same butter dish into which she shoved her elbow all those years before—shattering it beyond repair.

Ginny’s mum raised an eyebrow at her daughter, but makes no comment, Banishing the shards, Scourgifying the butter, and bringing a new dish to the table.

She also assigned Harry to help Ginny to clear out the old shed so that the Delacours can store their carriage when they arrived that evening.

Harry looks terrified when she takes his hand and leads him outside. She can hear Ron snort when the door closes behind them.

His hand trembles in hers as they approach the cobwebby old outbuilding. Ginny opens the door and pulls him inside.

As the door closes, she leans in, letting her lips brush his earlobe as she says, “You’re of age, Harry.”

“Hnnnh?” he whimpers.

“You can use your wand to clean this place out in a trice.”

“Oh,” he sighs, sounding both relieved and disappointed. She walks behind him as he draws his wand and starts casting a rather impressive repertoire of cleaning charms. “G-ginny… I’m sorry. That I rowed with you. It… I was stupid.”

For a moment, his words and the sight of his square shoulders nearly does her in; then she regains her discipline. “Too right it was,” she says. And then, because she can’t help herself: “I’m sorry too. About the row. About hugging Dean just to make you jealous. It was stupid. Too.”

The apology turns some kind of corner for Ginny; she no longer feels as if she’s seeking revenge. She stands there for a moment, fingers maintaining the lightest of contact on his shoulder blades as he Levitates the leftovers from her father’s experiments with plugs into theashbin . “Where did you learn all of those domestic spells?” she murmurs at last, letting her fingers trail down his back, which causes a _Scourgify_ to misfire, breaking some Muggle contraption that looks like a wireless, but seems to be made up of wiring and glass bulbs that _pop_ rather satisfactorily.

“B-been fantasizing about scaring the piss out of my aunt for years,” he says, Summoning the broken tubes and then Banishing them to theashbin. ( _Mustn’t let Daddy see that—he’ll be brokenhearted._ ) Ginny’s fingers run back up his spine and he shivers. “B-been paying attention to your mum.”

“What a good boy you are,” Ginny says, and then she does something that she has wanted to do for years: she slides her hand down his back and beneath the waistband of his jeans, cupping his magnificent bum through his boxers.

She and Harry explored by touch a lot during their brief weeks together, but it was all done fully clothed—Ginny sensed that Harry needed to get used to the idea of actual physical contact, and so she was willing to take it slow.

She isn’t willing any more.

Harry gasps. “ _Ginny. Please._ ”

“Please?” Ginny asks, voice and hand trembling. “You want me to—?”

“ _NO. Ginny. Pleeeeeeease.”_ He’s arching forward. He’s…

Ginny grins and blushes, shocked and amazed at her own daring, pleased at the affect that she’s having on him. “You don’t want my hand on your backside, Harry?” she asks. “How about the front, then?”

He stands there, rigid, unable to answer, bent forward at the waist, trying to hide what Ginny is certain is a full-blown erection.

Ginny presses up against his back, that high, lovely bum against her belly, and lets her hand trace around the crown of his right hip outside of his boxers. When she reaches the front of his leg, she hesitates. Harry hisses—whether at the delay or at the actual sensation, Ginnyisn’t sure.

This isn’t in the plan. Nothing like this is supposed to happen—at least, not until tomorrow.

Sod that.

Slowly, her cheek resting against Harry’s shoulder, Ginny slides her fingers through the slit at the front.

Michael Corner begged and begged Ginny to touch him while they were seeing each other. When she finally gave in, he came the instant her fingers touched his flesh. They were barely able to talk to each other after that.

Dean was much more… reciprocal about the whole thing, which Ginny rather liked. But he was also very specific about what could be done to whom, when. “No, it’s too soon for that.” “It’s time for you to let me touch your titties, Ginny!” The whole thing lacked spontaneity, and he was always very clear that he didn’t want to _take advantage of her_. As if. The afternoon that Harry and Ron walked in on them snogging in the back corridor, Ginny was _this close_ to tearing his robes open and jumping him. That was part of the reason that she blew up at Ron so disastrously. Well, that and the look of betrayal and fury in Harry’s eyes. And Ron’s idiotic accusations.

Bloody hell.

 _Just as well they came in when they did_ , Ginny supposes.

Harry though—they were totally at ease with each other from the start. She let him know what was available without saying a word; he did the same. Their explorations felt _right_ —no need to hurry, after all, since they both knew where they were headed, and they both knew they’d arrive there eventually. Harry’s lack of experience and his reticence didn’t bother Ginny at all, and so he managed not to be embarrassed or frustrated as her previous boyfriends had been.

Then it all fell to hell.

The very stiff cock in Ginny’s hand is one whose contours she knows well—she’s been exploring them in her mind for years, and began mapping out its shape and texture through his trousers during their last weeks together. But she has never touched it directly—she’s fairly certain that no one has ever touched it before her at all—and the smooth heat of it startles her. She squeezes it, thrilling at the way it swells in her hand.

“ _FUCK!_ ” he moans, a word that she has never heard him use, and Ginny giddily starts to run her fingers up to the very moist tip—( _the head, long and tapered, what would_ that _feel like?_ )—and then back down to the testicles that are round and tight against his body.

Ginny presses against his back, stroking him gently.

“Stop. Ginny. _Stop!_ ” Harry grasps her wrist and holds it; he pulls her hand away from his cock and out of his trousers. He turns and steps away from her, looked at her, his mouth open, his eyes open, a damp spot showing on the front of his jeans. Then he sprints out of the shed.

Ginny stands there, her crotch wet and warm from her own need, her hand moist and cooling from his.

Bugger.

She should have stuck to the plan.

Perhaps it is time to move on to Plan B?

Well, there is always time for that tomorrow.

When the Delacours fly in that afternoon, their Abraxan-drawn carriage becoming visible as it passes over the Lovegoods’ ( _Wonder what Luna will say when I tell her I squeezed—_?), gliding in to the paddock for a perfect landing, Harry makes sure to stand right next to Ginny’s parents. Even so, Ginny is gratified to sense him throwing her glances even as the picture-perfect Delacours descend and begin bestowing greeting kisses on all and sundry.

Fleur throws herself squealing into Bill’s arms, and Ginny’s stomach turns sour. Fleur may be _all right_ , but do they have to see it?

Ginny’s mum has been planning that evening’s dinner for weeks. They eat out in the garden, the silvery summer twilight stretching gorgeously through course after course, the tinkling laughter of Madame Delacour and her daughters adding a ridiculous glamour to the festive meal.

Ginny is seated across from Harry, which should have been wonderful. Unfortunately, she is next to Fleur’s little sister Gabrielle, who seems determined to charm Harry’s pants off that evening.

 _My job, you little French tart_ , thinks Ginny ungenerously. It is hard to forgive her, to dismiss her as merely eleven. In the first place, Ginny remembers too well her own thoughts about Harry when she was eleven. In the second, the littlebint is a part-Veela . And in the third… In the third, Harry seems to be succumbing. He laughs at Gabrielle’s jokes, smiles at her ridiculous broken English. As they are clearing away after the meal, Gabrielle flits up to him and begins asking him about Hogwarts—questions that she asked twice before at the table. When Harry politely answers _again_ , Gabrielle giggles, pushes up on her toes, and kisses him on the cheek.

Ginny isn’t aware having made any sound—indeed, no one else seems to notice anything, not even Gabrielle—but Harry’s eyes snap to hers. At first, he looks mortified, apologetic. Then his face takes on a cheeky expression that Ginny herself knows only too well: _payback’s a bitch_ , it says.

Bugger.

Once the Delacours are set up in their pavilion beside the paddock—the soon-to-be-married couple’s attempts to appear calm as they wish each other a good night fool no one; they’ll be off rutting as soon as everyone else turns in—Ginny joins her family in finishing the cleaning up and meandering back to the house. TheWeasleys (plus two) all settle in the drawing room, their bellies full, their faces content. Hermione is resting her head on Ron’s shoulder—an unheard-of display. Ron eyes are dark as ever, however, and focused on Ginny.

Harry. Harry looks drawn and tired. Even more drawn and tired than usual. When Molly Weasley begins to listen to bloody Celestina Warbeck on the wireless, he excuses himself with a yawn, disappearing up the stairs with remarkable speed and silence.

Ginny waits for five minutes, and then wanders to the kitchen. Just at the point when she is certain that the coast is clear, that she can follow up the stairs without being noticed, Ron comes in and leans lankly against the counter beside Ginny.

“Still hungry, Ron?” Ginny teases, trying not to engage him, trying not to let him launch into whatever ridiculous rant he seems to have saved up for her.

Ron simply grunts, the same dark stare piercing her. “Ginny,” he says finally, “you’re my sister and I love you. But if you hurt him, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Ginny gapes. “ _What?_ ”

“You know he’s in love with you, right?” Ron hisses. Before she has a chance to absorb that, let alone to answer, he continues, voice low and intense. “I’ve watched you the last few days. I’ve seen what you’ve been doing to him. You’re not just driving him spare; you’re _killing_ him.”

Too astonished to stop angry tears from welling up, Ginny is amazed that she nonetheless manages to keep her voice low. “Well sod him! If he wants something, he can bloody ask himself!”

Taking Ginny by the shoulders, Ron whispers fiercely into her ear. “It’s not about what he _wants_ , Ginny, it’s about what he can have.”

Ginny has no idea how to answer that.

“He…” Ron freezes, the way he sometimes does when considering doing something he knows he shouldn’t do.

“What, Ron?”

“We… We’re going away. Soon.” His tone is soft, but there is no apology to it at all.

“Oh. I assumed.” Ginny backs away from her brother and looks up into his eyes. All of her brothers have those same deep blue eyes except for Charlie, and she’s always envied them. “When?”

With a wince and a quick glance to make sure no one is listening, Ron answers, “Soon. After the wedding.”

Not before her birthday. Ginny feels ridiculous that she’s so pleased.

“The thing is, Ginny, there’s no time and no room for… for mucking about and playing games.”

Ginny feels heat rising up the back of her neck. “ _Games?_ I’m not playing bloody games.”

“Yes, you are,” Ron answers, so quiet that she can barely hear him through the murmuring and warbling in the other room. “You are, and he has no idea what the rules are. It’s time to move straight to the endgame, sis.”

( _Is he…?_ ) “What are you saying, Ron?”

He blushes—ears first and then, when he sees that she’s noticed, his whole face—and she knows _exactly_ what he’s saying. She stares up into her brother’s eyes and is shocked by what she sees there; blushing or not, he has grown up a lot in the past year.

So have they all. “If it’s any consolation,” Ron mumbles, “I’ve threatened to kill him too, if he hurts _you_.”

Ginny kisses him on the cheek. “You’re a good friend, Ron. And a good brother. Sometimes,” she adds with a smirk.

“Thanks,” he says, smirking back. Then his eyes are deep and still. “I was thinking maybe Hermione and I might take a nice walk out to the pond. A nice, long walk. Till, maybe, midnight?” He blushes on; his eyes never leave hers.

“Sounds nice.” ( _About time!_ )

“Hmm.” He nods, starts to turn, and then suddenly pulls Ginny into an enormous, sprawling hug. “Tease,” he says, an old taunt from when they were young and she would make sure that she finished her ice cream last.

“Prat,” she answers, as she always did, and he smiles, hugs her again, and saunters out of the room, leaving nothing between her and the stairs but her own failing nerve.

Ginny feels younger and sillier with every step that she climbs. Harry Potter has a task to focus on. He made it clear that he doesn’t need any distractions, that he doesn’t want be diverted. Ron and Hermione have both begged her to leave him alone—haven’t they? What in Merlin’s name is she doing?

By the time that she reaches the third landing, she feels exactly as she did that first summer that Harry visited. It is as if her feet and arms and mouth don’t quite fit her body, and she is afraid of stumbling or squealing or breaking something at any moment. What is she doing?

Before she can worry that question any further, she simply _does_. She slips through the door without knocking as she has been berating her brothers for doing since she was old enough to mind.

Harry Potter is lying back on the camp bed that has been his for years, face flushed, trousers around his knees and his hand full of… ( _Oh, my._ )

“ _FUCK!_ ” they gasp in unison. An eruption of white sprays over the opening between Harry’s thumb and forefinger before Ginny has the presence of mind—or sensitivity—to turn away.

By the time she gathers the nerve to turn around again, Harry has managed to cover his lap with his pillow—or perhaps it’s Ron’s. ( _Poor Ron._ ) His eyes and mouth are as open and round as three Dementors’ mouths, and they seem to be robbing her of her senses just as efficiently. Ginny and Harry gape wordlessly at each other; she knows that she is blushing from her scalp to somewhere mid-thigh.

Bugger this. Ginny walks forward, eyes locked on Harry’s. Harry’s eyes, which did not blink. When she reaches his bed, she sinks beside him and draws out his wet, unresisting hand. Eye still on eye, she kisses the moisture off of his fingers.

The original plan was to come up to his room, close the door, and disrobe—very, very slowly. Well, the original plan was for her to come up to him on the _sixth_ night, but no plan survives the first engagement. Ginny was sure that by this point Harry would dissolve into a puddle of goo at her feet.

But she doesn’t want him to dissolve. She doesn’t want to torture him. She wants to _love_ him, in any way that she can.

The taste of the jism on his hand is odd and sour, but it is him, and she sucks first one finger and then another into her mouth.

Eye still on eye.

When the hand is clean, she reaches for the pillow and pulled it away.

Harry stops her. “Ginny.” He seems to be searching the depths of her eyes for something. ( _Let him search. Let him find._ ) “Ginny. I’m leaving. With Ron and Hermione.”

“I know.”

“I can’t take you with us.”

“I know.”

At that he blinks, and then frowns.

Ginny reaches out the last few inches to his cock, slides her fingers around it again as she did this afternoon—only now she can see the effect, can see his face darkening, can see the pupils diminishing within the green seawash of his irises. She strokes him twice, joy filling her as it stiffens, as a low groan escapes his lips.

( _Lips. Yes._ ) Still looking up at him, she starts to lower her mouth to him, something the girls in her dormitory _giggled about,_ that everyone said drove the boys wild, but that no one would ever admit to having done, that she certainly never considered—

“No,” Harry grunts, grabbing her shoulders.

A disappointed moan bubbles up from Ginny’s gut. How has she bollixed it? Did she break the spell?

“You first.” Harry smiles fiercely and pushes Ginny backward, firmly but gently.

Ginny’s disappointment turns to shock and delight as he runs his hands under the conservative A-line skirt that Ginny borrowed from Hermione—that her mum altered to fit Ginny’s immense lack of curve—as he pushes the silk-lined wool up, as he slithers up between her knees and begins to kiss his way up her thighs.

None of the girls talked about _this_. Bints.

Unable to move, unable to breathe, Ginny can only watch as he reaches the top of the her left thigh and peers up past the plain white knickers—she saved the silk ones for day six,wouldn ’t you know—and the crumpled skirt. She’s never been so glad not to have breasts; her view is unimpeded as he takes the cotton knickers and, after puzzling at them for a moment, rips them off of her body.

Harry eyes leave hers at last, and she knows that he is looking at her… her _thing—_ her pussy, her cunt, her quim, her bottom, her slit, her vulva. All of the names are ridiculous, but Harry looks anything but amused. Terrified, perhaps—or awe-struck if she is lucky—but deadly serious, he leans forward and kisses her on _that place_.

Ginny hears a sound spilling out of her that she is quite certain that she has never made before. Harry looks up, alarmed; she finds herself arching her pelvis up in frustration, trying to find that connection again.

He grins then, and leans back in, finding her lips with his lips once again. As his kissing becomes less tentative, as his tongue became more and more involved, Ginny finds that she is incapable of watching; she flops back onto the bed and lets her eyes wander, losing herself in the sensation.

Truly, this is glorious. More than glorious. If any of her friends experienced this, she forgives them now for not talking about it—how to find the words?

Harry’s tongue finds her most sensitive spot and she squawks again. He doesn’t stop this time; however, she does see his wand come up and cast a couple of quick spells that she recognizes by the wand movements as an Imperturbable Charm and a Locking Charm.

The good boy has been working on his nonverbal spell-casting. Ginny will have to reward him for that.

During their foreshortened time together, they did most of the things that could be done without removing clothing. One particularly happy hour by the lake, Ginny climbed astride his lap and—much to Harry’s evident shock—begun to grind her… _thing_ against _his_ thing. Their pelvises rolled against each other for a few minutes before Harry screamed and bucked like an offended Hippogriff, lifting her off of the ground; the pressure of his groin against hers set off an explosion in _Ginny’s_ loins that was unlike anything that she had ever experienced before.

The detonation that his tongue sparks now makes that first look like one of Fred and George’s less successful fireworks. An eruption of pleasure washes outward from her center and as awareness returns, Ginny finds herself lying limp, watching phantom colors spark across the dingy, white ceiling of Ron’s room.

Harry climbs further up until they are eye to eye once again. His cheeks glisten; she can smell herself on him, and instead of it being embarrassing it is somehow _wonderful_. Reaching up, she removes his glasses and tosses them onto Ron’s bed. His expression is still dark, but uncertain.

She pushes up on her elbows and kisses him, feels his mouth tighten and then relax as their lips meet for the first time since beforeDumbledore’s death.

Some things are just right. Honey belongs on toast. Cold nights need flaming hearths. And Ginny’s lips belong on Harry’s. She feels whole again for the first time in over a month.

Of course, whole as she feels, it is hard not to be distracted by the twitching of a stiff penis against her own naked inner thigh. Hard too for Harry—or rather, _difficult_. He breaks the kiss and gazes down at her, questioning.

A grin wells up—and this one does have some of the twins’ evil twisting it, Ginny knows. Ginny loops her feet over Harry’s wonderful backside and urges him forward.

He resists, and Ginny gives an exasperated moan. If she had her wand at hand, she would switch to Plan B right then and there, but it is down in her room and Ginnydoesn’t particularly care to leave just yet.

Harry leans down and kisses her, and then backs up. Just as Ginny is about to howl at him, he points his wand at his erection and casts a nonverbal spell on himself and then two on her.

Another thing that her dorm-mate rumor mill got wrong: Lydia swore that it is always the girls who are responsible for contraceptive spells—that boys never think of them, since they won’t be the ones stuck waddling around likePuffskeins for nine months if they don’t.

Not Harry. He thought. He cared. He took responsibility. His face is as earnest and as serious and as terrible (in a good way) as anything that Ginny has ever seen and for the second time that night, Ginny feels tears well up—not angry this time, but overwhelmed and happy and—

“I love you, Ginny,” Harry says, his voice high and tremulous, and Ginny finds that she is as blind as he is.

“Love you,” she splutters, and then reaches down between them, taking his still-wet cock and guiding it to her still-wet cunt.

Feeling him pushing up against her, Ginny screams again; it feels as if she is being pulled to pieces in the most pleasant way possible. Harry stops again, but she urges him further with her legs wrapped around his bum.

His cock—that tapered head, _so_ beautiful—presses up against the wall of what is left of Ginny’s hymen, of what years of flying broomsticks left her. He hesitates, begins to pull back. Merlin, that felt good too, but Ginny’s body tells her it is time, and she pulls hard against him with her arms and legs, and it _hurts_ and she cries out, and Harry begins to back away again, but Ginny will not let him, she _has_ him, she pulls him in and they begin to rock together, mouths together, that naked bum under her naked calves, her hands under his shirt and his hands searching, caressing under hers, a chain—her locket—bouncing free of his shirt and sliding along her cheek and too soon he stiffens and arches back, bellowing like a triumphant dragon, and a new flood explodes inside of Ginny’s center, wet heat that splashes against parts of Ginny that she had not known where there, and they both collapse.

When they have both caught their breath, Harry pulls slowly out; Ginny hisses at the raw sting. _There to remind us that there’s pain at the other end too,_ her mum said when Ginny got The Talk two years back. Ginny thinks, however, that it might have more to do with reminding young lovers that nothing is ever perfect.

Harry is leaving in a couple of days. He is going to go off doing something stupid. He and Ginny’s brother and Hermione are going to save the world.

Or die trying.

Ginny weeps silently, considering just what they have done, just where they are going. She feels Harry’s knee press up against her hip, and she rolls onto her side, away from him. He spoons up behind her, his hand still beneath the conservative button-down top—also borrowed from Hermione. His fingers worm their way up between her breasts, burning. , His locket— _her_ locket—still drapes across her neck.

When the ache between her legs and the weight upon her chest have both subsided a bit, she reaches up and squeezes his hand through the material of the blouse. “I do, Harry.”

“Do?” His breath tickles that sweaty back of her neck.

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

They lie there a bit longer, and Ginny decides that—as much as it has been wonderful—she is going to be paying for it tomorrow. For the rest of her life.

Lips press against the back of her head. “Why?” Harry asks.

She ponders, biting her lip. She knows somehow just what he is asking. “If Dumbledore hadn’t died, Harry, do you think we would have got here by now?”

After a five-heartbeat silence, he whispers, “Yeah. Yeah, by now, if not sooner.”

“Do you think Voldemort should be able to rob us of this?”

Ten heartbeats. “No.”

A smile blossoms, and this one is purely her own. “There you are, then.”

He snuggles up against her. “So, was this the plan?”

“Plan?”

He squeezes her against him—his cock, limp now, presses up against her bum, the skirt still crumpled around her waist. With a chuckle, he says, “Come on, Ginny. You’ve been stalking me since Monday.”

“Oh. _That_ plan.” And so Ginny tells him all about Plan A, tells him that she got ahead of herself, but that she thinks perhaps that he doesn’t mind too much.

He doesn’t. “And what was Plan B?”

“Bat-bogey Hex,” Ginny murmurs.

Harry laughs.

“Harry?” Ginny says, some time later, as she feels their bodies finally beginning to cool. “You’ve got a year.”

“A year?”

“In a year and eight days I’ll be of age. And I’m coming to wherever you are. And I’m staying with you.”

Twenty heartbeats. “What if I don’t let you?”

She throws her leg over his hip and pulls his pelvis against hers again. “That hex works on _any_ mucus membrane, Harry.”

He frowns, and then his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes are brilliantly green and perfectly round. He laughs, rolling her back onto her back, and he kisses her.

On the fifth day, everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Reallycorking, “Ginny Weasley” — used with permission.


	18. Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy is exactly where she wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Back to back adult-only chapters. Whew. There was a reason I rated this fic this way, you know. ;-)
> 
> Warnings: Angst. Het. Some plottiness. Dominance/submission—not my cup of tea, particularly, but hey, it's their story... ;-)
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, aberforths_rug, who made me think about why I feel the way I do about, among other things, Draco... Didn't change it. But made me think, which is always good. :-)

Draco always likes to talk when her mouth is full. “Merlin, Pansy, I’d almost forgotten how good those lips of yours were.”

Even had his fists not been tightly knotted in her hair, pulling her _down_ , she still wouldn’t have given in to the impulse to pull off and give him an oh-so-smart _Ta, very much_ ; witty banter in the midst of a blow job is only likely to make Draco sullen. Instead, she simply smiles up at him in what she is certain is a smoldering manner when she reaches the end of the upstroke, those lips that he seemed so fond of pursed around his glans.

His eyes are closed.

Pansy goes back to devouring his familiar erection with a sense of resignation and rightness. This is how it’s supposed to be.

This cock is probably the part of Draco that she knows the best. It is eager now, and there isn’t much that she needs to do to keep it happy, aside from watching her teeth and making sure she doesn’t suck too hard—coming too soon also makes Draco sullen, and she really wants him to fuck her today—it’s been far, far too long.

With the hand that isn’t engaged in stroking his erection in time with her mouth—( _Silly boy, it’s the fingers and the tongue that do the work_ )—she strokes up his thigh and gives his balls a squeeze. They’re shaved, which is new—not that Draco has ever been exactly hirsute—and tight to his body. He gives the high-pitched _AH!_ that usually precedes his orgasms and Pansy decides that it is time to go in for the kill—his favorite finale to a good blow job, or so he has always said. She sneaks a finger behind his balls and between his cheeks and starts to press in—

“ _STOP!_ ” growls Draco, grabbing her wrist and yanking it away from his bum. Red with passion as his face is, his eyes are pale and dangerous. For a moment, the two of them freeze, eyes locked on eyes. Then, holding her head in place by the hair with his left hand and her wrist in place against the side of her bed with the other, he begins to thrust into her mouth, not gently, and if she did not know just how close he is to coming and couldn’t guess just why her little invasion caused such a reaction, she would have been more than a little frightened. The sharp head of his cock rips along the roof of her mouth, and he’s pressing her face hard against his body so that it’s difficult to breathe.

 _Just be thankful Weasley never did this_ , she finds herself thinking as spots begin to dance before her eyes. _He’d have shattered your spine. From the inside._

“Ah… _Ahhh!_ ” cries Draco at last, and Pansy’s mouth fills with the bitter taste of his cum.

His hands clench and release, and he flops back onto the green-and-gold bedspread.

Coughing, Pansy peers up at him: he is panting, the ribs on his chest heaving in sharp relief, his skin nearly as pale as the exquisite shirt off which she tore all of the studs. She climbs up beside him, still clearing her throat. Usually she would kiss him deeply after a blow job—he seems to find the taste of his own cum exciting, and his excitement excites her—but now she thinks that perhaps it wouldn’t be such a good idea. Instead she snuggles up beside him, one arm draped across his chest, careful not to press her breasts into his arm. “I missed you,” she says. ( _“I, you know... I do care.”_ )

He blinks, those long, impossibly blond lashes fluttering like moth wings. A half-hearted leer twists his lips. “When did you become such a Hufflepuff?”

Pansy smirks back—it’s his habitual answer whenever she gets clingy, the good answer. When he’s upset, he simply turns his back and pulls away. “Well,” she says, a purr working its way up through the jism in her throat, “you know how I like my favorite lolly.” Reaching down, she gives his softening cock a squeeze, evoking a shudder and another dribble of cum over her fingers.

Breathy, he grunts, “Spearmint.”

“Peppermint, I think.” The first time he convinced her to put his thing in her mouth, he’d taken a Honedukes lolly out of her mouth—smuggled in, they hadn’t even been third-years yet—lifted his robes and smeared it up the length of him. For years after, the very thought of peppermint made her feel dirty and nasty and very, very hot.

He turns his head, the grey of his eyes fading seamlessly into the whites in the twilight shadow of her bedroom. His fingers twirl curls in her short hair.

“When I convinced little Eri to give me that lock of her hair for the Polyjuice, it was the mint sucker that sealed the deal.”

Teddy’s little sister; Goyle’s Polyjuice puppet. Pretty and sexless as a Botticelli cherub. ( _Thin, pink lips, tongue dancing, eyes wide._ ) She forces herself to smile. “You always were a terrible influence on little girls.”

Again he smirks; again it is less than a stellar effort.

Gently, slowly, minutely, she lets her fingers play along his entirely soft cock—nothing weapon-like or intimidating now, it’s more like her own moist flesh, yet her ministrations still make him twitch and groan. “ _Hell_ , woman.”

( _You send me there on a nightly basis,_ n'est-ce pas, chérie _?_ ) He doesn’t tell her to stop, and so she doesn’t, caressing him even as her other hand begins to caress herself again.

From this distance, both of them relaxed, it is easy to see that he has lost weight—and not in a good way. His cheeks, which have always been sharp in what she thought was a rather dashing fashion, are sunken. There are dark half-moons under his eyes, and his hair, on which he generally expends nearly an hour of careful primping time and gallons of magical hair-care products—not that he would ever admit it—is dull and flat.

Though he seems to be enjoying her touch, it doesn’t seem to be having much of an effect either; just as she is about to stop, to let him drift off to sleep, he begins to murmur, “My parents are both dead. He killed them.”

“Bastard,” she says before thinking better of it. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

A ghost of a smile plays over his lips before disappearing into the frown that has overcome his face. “You never liked them.”

“Maybe not,” she says, voice low. “But you did.”

“Well, I can’t say I _liked_ them, exactly,” he says. “But they were my parents.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, in spite of herself.

“Hufflepuff,” he says with a touch of a sneer. “The thing is, the house is mine now. All. House. Name. Gold. But I’m kept as a lapdog in my own home. Treated as a… a servant.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes, well… He is… the Dark Lord.” He grunts, his pelvis rolling slightly under her hand—still not hardening yet, but feeling her fingers on his flesh.

( _Weasley’s cock—Ron’s—insistent and…_ ) “He’s insane,” she mutters.

Draco stiffens, but does not pull away.

“He’s a half-blood madman who’s sucking all of the oldest, strongest supporters of blood purity dry and killing off all of the blood traitors one after another. It's like a game of bloody Foxes and Fairies for him, and he's the bloody six-year-old sitting in his sandbox watching it all happen. He’s going to destroy every pure-blood family before he’s done,” she murmurs, placatingly petting at his cock, which is finally beginning to rise again. “He wants your house and your gold, Draco.” Pansy can’t believe that she’s actually just said those words, and to Draco.

He shivers, and Pansy doesn’t think it’s from desire. “ _You_ wanted my house and my gold.”

“Well, of course, _chérie_ ,” giggles Pansy as lightly as she can. “But I wanted other things too.”

He lets loose a mirthless laugh. “Do you really believe he’s a half-blood? You been reading the Lovegood bitch’s fishwrap?”

“According to Daphne, who, as we know, is an _excellent_ judge of character, the bint is neither as mad or as stupid as she acts.” She milks his cock—though still not quite hard, it is gaining length, and Pansy’s cunt is beginning to weep in sympathy. “I didn’t know _you_ read _The Quibbler_.”

He snorts—not something Draco is wont to do. “Oh, the Dark Lord insisted that no copies of that _infernal arse-wipe_ be brought into the house. And so, of course, they arrived by the dozens—I’d almost think the Lovegoods shipped them to us on purpose. It was like fifth year all over again, only instead of that pathetic Hufflepuff Umbridge raging around, it was Syltherin’s heir. The Dark Lord.”

“Must have been less than pleasant.” She glances down as she squeezes his cockhead—it is dark red.

“Tedious, yes,” he murmurs, and she is about to spring her proposal on him—Ron’s proposal—when he groans, rolls towards her, and pushes her arm away from him. There was a time when she would have felt hurt by this, but she knows what it promises now, has been looking forward to this for nearly a year; she rolls away from him.

He pulls up behind her and raises her thigh, his cock poking into the vacated space. Hand trembling, Pansy reaches down and guides him into her. “ _Merlin, Pansy!_ ” he grunts.

“Missed me… after all?” she asks, though the relief of the fact that he is fucking her—without her suggesting, without her begging for it—all but robs her of her voice.

He will last a while this time—once he has come once he sometimes gets bored before he can manage to come again.

She presses her upper leg back down again, tightening the hold of her labia on him as he presses through. They both gasp.

They fuck this way as the window fades from deep violet to black—( _Ten minutes? Fifteen?_ )—and Pansy lets sensation and thought chase each other through her nervous system. She finds as he presses up into her that the sharpness of his hipbones saddens her, that even his scent, familiar as it is, seems to have been decanted with notes of pain and sorrow. ( _Tell him. Soon. Every night. Ron._ )

Pansy continues to diddle herself, building and deconstrucing several small orgasms. She considers pulling the hand that rests on her hip forward—( _stroking it as if it were a frightened cat_ )—but decides against it. He seems content, and that is a rare enough occurrence that Pansy does not wish to ruin the mood.

Instead she settles for letting her fingers slide occasionally over his smooth, tight testicles, earning her a good, hard thrust each time.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he hisses. “Do. Miss. _Fuck_!”

“Every night,” she babbles, “you can have me every night, all day too, any way you want—”

He slows, without being able to stop himself. “Dark Lord… wouldn’t allow…”

“Come away, Draco,” she says, and perhaps it isn’t unseemly that her voice takes on a pleading note. “Come… to me. Don’t go back.”

Now he stops, the tip of his penis barely piercing her lips. “Can’t. He’d.” He pushes into her, a thrust that takes her breath away. “He _is_ mad, Pansy.”

“Yes, mad, mad—wants to kill all of the blood traitors and bleed the blood-purity party dry, ladidah; you're just figuring this out _now_?There won’t be any purebloods _left_ in Britain, Draco—everything we believe in, everything we’ve fought—”

“He’d…” Draco is buried inside of her—( _not as deep…_ )—clutching her to him, his fingertips piercing into her hip, into her shoulder, holding her fast. Suddenly a change comes over him—he remains still, but she can feel the fear recede. “Our classmates, they’re all… None of us signed up for this.”

“Let me help, Draco, while there’s still something left to rescue. _Please_.”

 _Hufflepuff_ , she imagines he’ll sneer, but no: “ _Merlin, Pansy…_ ” His breath is hot and uneven against her neck. Without thinking she contracts and releases the muscles that hold him and he whimpers. “ _Please_ ….”

Her chest constricts. Draco Malfoy, who has never asked anything of anyone, who has simply demanded or taken—he is _begging_ her. “We can plan it, Draco, we can, we can get _all_ of you—”

“Snape?” he snaps, his voice strangely cold.

“If you want.”

He begins to move against her again, his penis pushing through her lips. “My mother… My fucking _mother,_ ” he grunts as he slams into her, “bound him to me. If I leave without him, he’ll just track me—”

“Kill him,” Pansy says, scarcely believing that she’s said it—that she’s suggested murdering a man whose views, knowledge and discipline she has always admired, but faint heart—

“No,” he sighs, fucking her in earnest once again, “can’t. Can’t… bloody… kill.”

“Then take him, we can hide you.”

“Dumbledore promised…” He stills again, fingers pushing into her soft flesh as his cock pulls out. “We?”

“I… know some people,” she says, and to her own ear it sounds far less than impressive. “We could—”

“Been _talking_ to Potter, Pansy?” he says, and any softness is gone from his voice. This tone too she knows and fears.

“Not Potter,” she says as firmly as she can manage—it is, after all, the truth. ( _Freckles. Red hair. Ron… Ron…_ )

They remain unmoving for a long moment, Pansy certain that he’s going to cast the Killing Curse on her right there, proclaim her a blood traitor, though she’s not, she—

Slowly, he begins to slide into her again, though his fingers maintain their hippogryff-trap grip. “Yes,” he says, and settles back into his rhythm.

“Y-yes?” she asks when he neither continues nor threatens.

“Potter,” he says, and no more for quite some time. Just when she’s begun to breathe again—when her cunt has begun to flow again—he pulls out and pushes her upper shoulder so that she falls flat onto her belly. “Yes. _We’ll_ get us all…” He climbs over her.

“Draco…” Pansy whimpers.

“…out.” He presses down on her pelvis so that she is squashed flat against the bedspread. With either hand he pushes down on her loathed posterior. ( _Oh, là, là, p'tite! Quelle grosse espèce de cul..._?) “What a fat arse you have, Pansy,” he sneers, manic, though not without a trace of his old bravado. Draco climbs over her legs, knees poking. “Been sitting on it, have you, while I’ve been suffering the Cruciatius, while I’ve been sleeping in the bloody house-elves’ quarters in my own bloody house?”

He spreads her cheeks and she whimpers again, reaching for her wand. ( _Butterfinger_ …)

Draco plunges into her without any warning, without any preliminaries; his thumb-thick prick plunges into her arse and it _hurts_ , it _burns_ , it feels as if he has taken a hot poker from the fire and thrust it into her and she howls.

He buggers her, fingers digging into her bum as he reeves her. “Merlin, Pansy,” he crows as she weeps against the gold and green silk, “what a good fucking whore you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is Antosha, “Pansy’s Back.” So, mine.


	19. As Bees in Honey Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wants to help Ginny. Luna wants to help them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Quasi-crypto-proto-pre-polyamory. Ethical uncertainty of a brand that makes Gryffindors uncomfortable.

Ginny and Harry are intertwined on the other end of Ginny’s bed like the last two in a litter of Kneazles, and the sight evokes two responses from Luna’s body: the increasingly familiar blancmange-in-the-tummy feeling and a new, raw, bruised feeling just below her clavicle. Fascinating. “The Delacours are rather pretty,” she says.

Ginny’s eyes narrow. “Yes. They are.”

Harry grins.

“I’m of the opinion,” Luna muses, “that they are probably part Veela, since I don’t usually find myself wanting to kiss people I haven’t met, even if they are rather pretty. It’s distracting.” She looks at the pair at the opposite end of the bed; usually her observations on magical cryptozoology are met with skepticism if not outright derision, but Luna is fairly certain that she can count on these two.

Harry proves her right in both her hypothesis and in her trust. “They are part Veela. Mrs. Delacour—the one that looks like Fleur’s older sister—her mother was a full-blooded one.” His eyebrows disappear into his glasses. “You… wanted to kiss them?”

“Oh, yes, rather. As I said, it was quite distracting.” The brows that had been hidden suddenly shoot up, and it occurs to Luna that he and Ginny might feel somewhat disappointed to find this out. “Of course, the urge I felt to kiss them was nowhere nearly as strong as the one I feel to kiss the two of you, so you needn’t worry.”

The brows now furrow together. “Oh. Um. Good.”

Luna appears to have answered Harry’s concerns, since he doesn’t seem about to say anything further. Ginny is peeking bright-eyed from under his chin.

“In any case,” continues Luna, “the littlest one seems very sweet. And she seems to want kiss you rather badly, Harry.” Luna has been observing herself and her friends quite closely recently, looking for signs of attraction and desire, and looking at how those signs are received.

“No kidding,” says Ginny, eyes narrowing even further—not her most dangerous expression, since the nostrils seem to have remained at rest. It would be very helpful to see what the norms involved in this sort of thing might be, so that the next time that Luna finds herself incapable of controlling—

Harry chortles—( _sounds like a chortle, Harry can’t exactly be said to **giggle**_ ). “Ginny doesn’t like that there’s someone else out there who can claim that I saved her as a young girl.”

“Oh, come on,” Ginny says dismissively, and though her eyelids remain slitted, she is smiling. “Pulled up from the bottom of the lake alongside my brother? Hardly in the same league.”

“True,” says Harry with great gravity. “Slaying a dragon with a sword, now _that’s_ the way to save a girl.”

“It was a Basilisk,” points out Luna.

“Still—” responds Harry, and he would continue, but Ginny’s mouth finds his and they are silent for some minutes, arms, bodies and faces all but diaphanous one to the other.

Luna is curious what Harry would have said. She is curious too that the binary experience—sharp discomfort above and warm gooeyness below—seems to intensify as she watches them.

She has seen them kiss, and it has always been a lovely experience before the past few days. For some reason, however, the sight now evokes in her mingled pleasure and discomfort.

 **Observations:** Luna Lovegood is experiencing a pair of physiological responses to the sight of her good friends engaged in mating-related activity: a warmth in the pelvis that Luna Lovegood has experienced on two occasions, both in close proximity to Ginny Weasley; and a cold pinch in the chest which is entirely new to her. Luna Lovegood has previously observed Ginny Weasley kissing (snogging) Harry Potter on numerous occasions with no such reactions. Evidence (including statements by Ginny Weasley) suggests that Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter are newly sexually active. **Hypotheses** : A) This evidence of Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter’s recent sexual activity has upset Luna Lovegood. B) This evidence has caused Luna Lovegood to be sexually excited in a new and heretofore unforeseen manner. C) Luna Lovegood is both upset and excited. D) Luna Lovegood is anxious that Ginny Weasley will not like the birthday present that she will be giving her tomorrow. **Inferences** :—

Harry and Ginny have stopped snogging and are both blinking at her. Ginny is exhibiting several signs of extreme sexual arousal. Since she is sitting across Harry’s lap, however, Luna cannot discern whether the same is true of Harry, though she rather thinks that this is the case; she is surprised to find, however, that she wishes that she could discern those signs.

“Oh, Luna,” Ginny says, her face falling. “I’m so sorry, that was so inconsiderate.”

“In what way?” Luna asks. Harry is peering down at Ginny; he seems to have the same question.

“You’re…” Ginny begins. When she cannot finish she leans her head against Harry’s chest.

Harry looks down at the top of her head. “I think,” he says slowly, “that she’s feeling badly because here we snogged away right in front of you when you’d just said you wanted to… to kiss us, is that right?”

Ginny nods, her face solemn though it remains flushed.

“Oh, that was all right,” Luna says. “I didn’t mind. It was quite fascinating. I’ve been asking Ginny about the difference between _kissing_ and _snogging_ and I think I have a better idea know—it seems to have something to do with the involvement of hands and of the rest of the body.”

Ginny’s mouth twitches.

“Also, I was trying to understand…” At what is for her a very rare loss for words, Luna looks at her friends. “Harry,” she says at last, “have you ever felt jealous?”

He tilts his head. “Uh. Yeah.”

“And you, Ginny?”

She too tilts her head, against Harry’s chest, until their faces are at the identical odd angle. “I’d have said no,” Ginny says, “but the more I think of it… I may have told myself I didn’t mind Harry mooning after Cho, or spending all of his time with Hermione and my brother, but… Yeah.”

“Oh, good,” Luna says, nodding. This will help her work out her deduction. “While the two of you were snogging—snogging _away_ —I felt two totally different reactions in my body. One was a warm, rather pleasant sort of runny-pudding feeling at the pit of my tummy that I’ve felt once or twice before and the other was this quite unpleasant pinching feeling in my chest.” She looks at her friends, both of whom now bear identical wide-eyed expressions on their faces. “Does that sound like jealousy to you?”

“Erm, the pinchy feeling, sure,” Ginny says. “It’s… That’s why I feel badly about… The other bit… That’s, erm, something else, I think.”

Harry nods, looking rather pink, and then looks down at Ginny. “When I saw you kissing Dean, it felt as if there was this scaly monster in my chest that wanted to claw its way out and rip his head off.” He blinks back up at Luna. “But pinchy works for me. You… You’re feeling _jealous_?”

“Oh,” Luna say, “I don’t mind you two snogging and being together—it’s quite lovely and exciting, actually—and I don’t want to tear either of you apart.” She shifts. “But I must admit that I rather wished that _I_ had the opportunity.”

“I guess…” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I guess you did say that you wanted to kiss us. So… you’re jealous of me kissing Ginny? Or of her kissing—”

“Oh, probably less that,” Luna said, considering, “because I’ve already—”

“—I’ve already kissed her,” Ginny interjected.

Harry’s eyebrows arched very high indeed. “You’ve… You kissed her?” he asked Ginny.

“Yes,” Ginny says, her eyes locked to Luna’s.

Once again, Luna finds herself pulled between two very different physiological responses: one pleasant, though in a very non-sexual manner, like when her father congratulated her on writing such a good article about Tom Riddle; and the other the same sort of fluttery-tongued feeling that incapacitated her after she lunged at Ginny under the willow tree outside. “She… She didn’t, Harry,” Luna finds herself saying. “I kissed her.”

“Didn’t stop you though, did I?” asks Ginny.

“Well,” Luna begins, but that is as far as she is gets.

“Didn’t stop you. There I was, whinging on and on about how much I missed kissing and touching and snogging, and you reacted in your usual sensible way: I wanted to be kissed so you kissed me.”

Harry’s face has taken on a most peculiar expression.

“No,” Ginny says, and Luna is shocked to see that her eyes are becoming drippy. “I’m a rotten friend—to both of you. I said it that day, and it’s still true, everything Romilda bloody Vane and the other girls said about me, it’s all true, Ron was right, all I’m interested in is my own needs, I’m a scarlet—”

“No,” Harry and Luna say together.

“Ginny,” Harry says, pulling back from her and holding her by her arms, “no one gets to call you that, okay? Come on. It’s not like you go around pouncing on everyone you meet.”

Ginny’s eyes are still drippy; she is staring straight at Luna. “Depends on who you ask, now doesn’t it? Zacharias Smith…”

“What about Smith?” Harry asks, suddenly very serious—he can be a bit frightening when he’s like this, though Luna has always found that she rather likes it.

When Ginny doesn’t answer—her Dragonberry tea-brown eyes locked on Luna still—Luna answers for her. “He stuck his hand up her skirt on the way to school on the Hogwarts Express last year.”

“He _what_?” snaps Harry.

“Oh, come on, Harry,” Ginny sighs, “I took care of it. Slughorn never stopped telling me that was the best Bat-Bogey Hex he ever saw.”

“The one you cast on Draco Malfoy in Headmistress Umbridge’s office was better, I think,” Luna muses.

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees with a small grin, though her eyes continue to moisten. “I think you’re right. Anyway, Smith never tried that on again. Though when he started getting nasty at the Quidditch match—”

“You dive bombed him,” Harry finishes, smirking.

“Just proves his point, though, doesn’t it?” Ginny is crying now in earnest.

Luna pulls her knees up to her chest.

“Ginny,” Harry mumbles, wiping away her tears, “what are you on about?”

“How many people have you kissed, Harry?”

He screws up his face. “What’s that got…?” Ginny scowls at him and he shakes his head. “You and Cho. Oh, and Hermione kissed me on the cheek once after fourth year.”

“Harry, come _on_.”

“Oh, fine. But I offered to snog her face off this summer. In a very brotherly sort of way.”

Ginny’s eyes lock back on Luna. “You’re not helping, Harry.”

“I’ve only kissed you,” Luna says, though she rather suspects this is not helping either.

“There you go.” Ginny sniffles, and then buries her face in Harry’s armpit.

Harry squints down at the mass of red hair that seems to be growing from his shoulder and then looks up at Luna. His face reminds Luna of Neville’s just now—not as she has seen Neville lately, but the boy she first met on the Hogwarts Express.

“I think,” Luna says, “that she is feeling badly because I’ve only kissed one person and you’ve kissed two and she’s kissed—” ( _NevilleMichaelDeanHarry—Oh, she said Ronald once—Me_ ) “—five. Or perhaps six. Which doesn’t seem all that high a number when you consider that Sophie Moon in Ravenclaw had six boyfriends this year alone and those are just the ones I know about, which struck me as odd since no one seems to like Sophie very much, her ex-boyfriends especially.”

“You’re babbling, Luna,” says Ginny’s muffled voice.

“I’m sorry,” says Luna. “In any case, Harry, I think it’s what you said at first. Ginny feels badly because she kissed you—snogged away with you—even though I was watching, and she knows how I am attracted to you both.”

Harry’s green eyes peer at Luna, questioning. “Look, Luna…” He shakes his head—not at her, she thinks. Taking Ginny’s face in his hands, he says, “I think there’s something else.”

Now it is Ginny’s face that is questioning. She looks from his face to Luna’s. “It’s just that… I feel as if I…”

Luna waits. Harry is not as patient. “Sod this,” he says, and kisses Ginny somewhat emphatically.

Before Luna can begin to observe the effect on her of this kiss—not a snog this time—Harry does something that Luna never imagined him doing, not in a just-after-waking dream or a drifting-into-sleep shiver of anxiety: he lunges down the length of Ginny’s small bed, his hands—still warm from Ginny’s face—holding her cheeks steady, and touching his lips gently, warmly, very, very, very pleasantly against Luna’s.

One thing that Luna notices immediately is that where she was entirely unconscious during her too-quick, too-soon kiss with Ginny, she is very aware of what is happening to her this time. She attributes this in part to her increased level of experience in such matters, and to the fact that it is Harry and not Luna herself who initiated this embrace.

When the kiss ends, Luna feels a wave of intense relief flow through her—not that the kiss has ended but that she has kissed Harry without losing control.

Green eyes gleam at her.

That’s when she loses control.

When her consciousness returns, Harry is flat on his back beneath her. Her hands are beneath his shirt, which has been pushed up above his rib line. His eyes are wide and his lips glistening and pink—the shade of Humdinger tongues, like Tonks’s hair.

Kneeling above his head on the bed, Ginny stares, her eyes open wide, but her nostrils are flaring, and she seems to have retrieved her wand from under her pillow.

“Oh,” Luna says, and the burning, fluttering sensation that consumed her under the willow tree returns. “Oh. Harry. Ginny. I…”

“Luna,” says Ginny, but Luna cannot let her continue.

“I’ll just… don’t…” Her hands fly from Harry’s chest as if scorched. She begins to back away. “I’ll just…”

Two sets of fingers take her own before she can leap from Harry and run home—Harry the right and Ginny the left. Different hands: Harry’s long-fingered and dry, Ginny’s smooth but smaller and callused. “It’s okay, Luna,” Harry says. “I’m the one who started that.”

“But you only did it for Ginny.” Luna looks at her oldest friend. Ginny. Whose expression reminds her of…

“Maybe.” Harry shakes his head and looks up at Ginny, whose expression reminds Luna of the summer after first year. “Okay, Ginny?” Harry asks.

“Okay,” Ginny answers, and smiles a smile like an ashwinder egg covered with a thin layer of soot. She stows her wand back under the pillow and looks at Luna. “Pinchy pudding.”

“Really?” asks Luna, shifting atop Harry.

Ginny nods.

Harry is pulling his shirt down, moving beneath Luna in a rather distracting fashion. He turns to Ginny. “So. No more calling yourself names, right?”

Ginny smirks. “Right. Because you snogging my best friend totally lets me off the hook for slagginess.”

“Oh!” Luna finds herself saying. ( _Best friend._ ) “But he only did that for you.”

“I know that,” says Ginny, squeezing Luna’s hand. “Though I’m guessing he rather enjoyed himself.”

“I… I did,” Harry mutters, face twisting. “Still…” His eyes are flitting between Ginny and Luna.

“I’m glad you enjoyed that, Harry,” says Luna, quite pleased. “I enjoyed it too.”

“Yeah, but…” He looks back at Ginny. “I _shouldn’t_ have. Should I? Besides, that doesn’t seem fair,” Harry says, the green wash of his eyes all on Luna again, though his body is still turned. “I kind of took advantage of you for Ginny’s sake.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind at all,” Luna responds, squeezing his hand as Ginny squeezed hers. “I can say I’ve snogged away with someone properly, can’t I?”

“Yeah, but…” Harry turns back to Ginny and once again Ginny finishes his thought: “You deserve to be snogged for your own benefit, Luna. You really do.”

Luna considers the two of them, their odd Gryffindor-ness that springs up at the oddest moments.

Harry blurts, “Not that I wouldn’t if I could, mind.”

“Or me,” adds Ginny, as this somehow makes everything perfectly clear.

There doesn’t seem to be any point to what they are saying, though Luna does her best to divine one. Are they speaking ethically or metaphysically or in terms of some sort of enormous set of checks and balances? If Luna were truly honest, she would say that she has no idea what the words they’ve been using mean. However, this doesn’t seem to be the time for total honesty since a) Harry and Ginny both seem rather flustered, which is rather unusual and b) the inescapable pull of their proximity is somewhat distracting. So she speaks a small portion of what she thinks is the truth. “But I feel as if I _have_ been snogged for my own benefit,” she says, and they both give her that identical wide-mouthed look again. “Truly, I do. After all, I was the one doing the snogging. It seems to me that the only two people I’d like to kiss, I’ve kissed. And now I don’t feel as badly about having kissed Ginny. And…” Another rare lapse of tongue control came and went. “And isn’t that something friends do, helping friends, even when it doesn’t give them everything they themselves want?”

“I don’t know,” Harry muses.

“Sounds like not a very good friendship,” says Ginny.

 _Or a very good something other than friendship_ , a voice sighs in Luna’s head. Luna doesn’t have voices whispering in her head terribly often—it seems as if it would be quite distracting—and so this startles her more than a little bit. At the same time, the sub-sonic almost-hum washes over her as it did on this bed once before and she finds herself wondering at it—it reminds her of the dancing, diamond-bright light from that odd bell jar that they saw at the Department of Mysteries. The one that Harry wouldn’t let her investigate.

Blinking, trying to sort out thoughts, emotions, memories and sensations—( _Harry’s hip rolling against my bottom, two hands on mine, eyes like Dragonberry tea, eyes like the Draught of Lethe…_ )—she looks at her friends. “Oh, I think it sounds lovely. Now, what do you have planned for your birthday tomorrow, Ginny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Reallycorking, “Yellow Luna” — used with permission.


	20. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione knows that she can make it all come out right if she can only find the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the patient R/Hr readers... finally some surcease. ;-)
> 
> Blessings upon my beta, aberforths_rug

“So Harry _kissed_ Luna?” Hermione doesn’t think much can surprise her, but that does. She crawls from her own cot onto Ginny’s bed.

“Yeah,” answers Ginny, looking terrifically uncomfortable, her knees pulled up to her chest beneath the covers.

“But why in Merlin’s name would he do that?”

Ginny shoots Hermione a smirk through her fringe. “Maybe he wanted to? Besides, he said he offered to snog the living daylights of _you_ this summer.”

“But that’s different!”

“How?”

“Well… It was a _joke_ , Ginny!” Now Hermione is the one feeling uncomfortable. “He was just trying to say thank you. For figuring something out.”

“I bet.” The smirk softens slightly. “This was… It made sense at the time.”

There’s some part of the story that’s not being told here, Hermione knows, but she also knows Ginny. ( _Giants and tow-ropes._ ) “I see. And how did you feel about this?”

Ginny sighs. “Okay. He was trying to make a point, you know.”

“About you not being a ‘scarlet woman’ or whatever it is Ron accused you of?” Harry has never been a paragon of Aristotelian reasoning, but…

“Something like that.” Ginny sighs and shrugs again, pulling at her covers. “Okay, so the logic was a bit wonky, but honest, it did make sense. And it was okay. Sort of. I mean…” She chews on her lip and peers at the door. “Part of me felt awful. And part furious, like the creature that Harry always laughs about being inside of him whenever he saw me with Dean. And part…”

Hermione looks at her friend. Ginny has spent most of the past three days more herself than Hermione has seen since Dumbledore’s death. But now she is as pinched and uncertain as she was the year after the whole diary debacle happened. “What is it, Ginny?”

“Well… I know Harry didn’t really _want_ to kiss Luna—I mean, obviously he did, and why shouldn’t he want to kiss her after all? But he wasn’t doing it to kiss _her_.”

“Ginny,” Hermione says, scowling at her friend, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ginny snorts in frustration, blowing a loose strand of hair that is hanging over her right cheek. “It was just… Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss a girl?” This last spurts out so quickly that Hermione can barely make out the words.

“No,” she answers slowly, and when Ginny’s face begins to fall she adds, “but I know a lot of people do. Girls, that is. It’s perfectly normal.” ( _One of Mum’s endless speeches about tolerance and diversity… Kissing Parvati? Or Pansy Parkinson. Blech._ )

“Oh,” says Ginny.

“So… were you thinking of kissing Luna yourself?”

Ginny peers at Hermione through the loose lock of red hair. “Sort of. And sort of… And sort of thinking about… Luna really got into it, which surprised all three of us, I think.”

“I bet,” Hermione says, trying to imagine what happened on the very spot where she is sitting, just hours before. “Had she ever even kissed anyone before?”

Ginny mumbles unintelligibly, and then says, “The thing is… When you watched Ron and Lav-lav, it never got you worked up, did it? I mean, in a positive way?”

“No.” ( _Vacuous blonde vacuum, hoovering away…_ )

“No, I suppose not.” Ginny bites her lip and reaches out, touching Hermione’s hand where it’s picking loose threads on the duvet. “Sorry, Hermione, that wasn’t terribly thoughtful of me. I seem to be doing that.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Lavender and I buried the hatchet long before the end of term. And Ron and I… Well, it’s all for the best,isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ginny says, and some of the flare comes back into her eye. “Thanks to Harry’s good friend Felix.”

“Hmmm.” Hermione has wondered at that quite a bit—that Harry’s exit from the Common Room under the influence of Felix Felicis had the effect of rendering both Weasleys precipitously single. It makes sense that the potion broke up Ginny and Dean, but why…?

“How are things going with my dense brother?”

“Slowly,” Hermione mutters. “And he’s not so dense. Just… reticent.”

“Uh-huh,” Ginny says, studying Hermione cagily. “So he still hasn’t kissed you yet?”

“No,” says Hermione, and she can’t keep a plaintive, miserable note out of her voice, much to her own disgust. (Out to the pond the night that Ginny and Harry... Waiting for him to say a word. Holding his hand. Not saying a word.)

Ginny takes Hermione’s hand in her own. “Us Weasleys can be pretty stubborn, you know. Just look at what Harry had to do to convince me he was actually interested.”

This strikes Hermione as an odd comparison, and she is about to enumerate the lack of parallels when a quiet knock brings them both up short.

“Come in,” Ginny whispers—which is silly, if you think on it, since they’ve been gossiping away here for the past hour without any concern.

As Hermione expected, it’s Harry; he made it rather clear to her that he hoped to welcome Ginny’s birthday _properly_. “Hey, Hermione. Happy birthday, Ginny.”

What strikes Hermione most is the sudden change that comes over both of her friends. Harry, who has been shy and blushing around Ginny since they arrived in Devon, stands in front of the door with the same manly solidity that so disconcerted Hermione at the beginning of the summer. Ginny, who was a gibbering mess just five minutes ago, seems to have settled back into her skin with astonishing speed.

Is it the sex? Is it the certainty of each other’s love? Hermione cannot help but envy them, whatever it may be.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” Harry says, deadly serious.

“That’s all right,” Ginny answers much more playfully. “We were just talking about that.”

“Oh,” says Harry, giving Hermione a boyish smirk that puts her far more at ease. Turning back to Ginny he smiles in a manner that promises things that Hermione can only guess at. “I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you.”

“Erm,” Hermione finds herself mumbling as she looks back at Ginny, who is staring at her boyfriend with a look of mingled surprise and desire. “Well, perhaps… I’ll be back in about an hour.”

As she shoots past Harry, he squeezes her hand. “Thanks. Hermione. I promise, I’ll do the same for you.”

 _Not that I’ll ever need it,_ she thinks once she is leaning against the outside of the door to Ginny’s room. Just in case, she casts an Imperturbable Charm on the door; Hermione is fairly certain that Ron, Bill and Charlie know exactly what’s going on between their youngest sister and her boyfriend, but she’s not sure about the twins or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and it wouldn’t serve any of them to learn the truth by surprise.

Hermione considers her options. She meant to bring the book on Curse Breaking that Bill lent her down to the kitchen, but it’s back in the room with Ginny and Harry and she doesn’t think she’s capable of going back in there just now. She contemplates the other doors around the landing. The twins seem to be laughing about something—no. Charlie’s in Percy’s old room, and she can hear him snoring—honestly, he makes Ron sound dainty.

She looks at the stairs up. No.

Down on the first landing, she finds that the doors to both rooms—Bill’s and the elder Weasleys’—are charmed with the same spell that she has just cast on Ginny’s door, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped the ramshackle structure of the house from transmitting telltale thumps from either side. ( _Did Bill levitate Fleur up?_ )

Back up? No.

With a sigh, Hermione wanders down to the ground floor. Perhaps she can find one of Molly Weasley’s cookbooks to read. Or one of the ones on cleaning charms. Perhaps there’s something in there that will give her some idea how to destroy a—

“Hey, Hermione.”

The voice floats out of the pitch-black sitting room, but Hermione doesn’t need light to identify the speaker. It’s a voice she knows as well as any—a voice she literally hears in her dreams. “Ron? What are you doing down here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Oh.” She shuffles into the shadows towards his voice—towards the battered old sofa where he seemed to be speaking from.

“I… I didn’t fancy just sitting up in my room waiting for Harry to come back.”

She can just make out shine of the top of his head, the line of his nose and the top of the sofa in the dim starlight. He moves to one side of the sofa and she sits in the vacated space. “Oh. I can understand that.”

They sit there in silence for a moment, and Hermione feels as if she might scream. Thinking of what Ginny said just before Harry arrived, she leans forward. “Ron—”

“Hermione—” he starts at the same time, and stops. He too has leaned forward; she can feel his breath on her nose.

“Ron,” she starts again, knowing she cannot stand not to say this. “Ron, I’ve spent the past year hoping I’d find a chance to be alone with you like this. But then the whole mess with Lavender happened. And… other things. The Dursleys’ was so… _odd_. And here there’s your whole family, and Harry and Ginny, and the DA around all of the time. And when we’ve been alone, it’s been about… giving Harry and Ginny… time.”

“They deserve it.” His voice sounds so low, so sad…

“So do we, Ron,” she says, and her heart is thudding in her throat so hard that she finds her mind wandering to cardiac healing charms that Mrs. Weasley was teaching at the DA meeting yesterday. 

“Her… mione,” he groans, struggling away at her ridiculously long name and she wishes she’d just let them shorten it, though she’s always nipped that in the bud— _‘Mione_ , for Merlin’s sake, or _Hermy_ after Grawp…. His fingers find her cheek; they feel as if they’re going to singe her flesh.

“Ron, I really… I really, really, really care for you.” She knows she will faint soon if she doesn’t get this out. “I always have. Always. Even when Viktor…. And I’m fairly certain you’ve fancied me at least a little and I—”

Ron seems to understand as Hermione never has that there are times for words, and times when they’re not necessary.

When Hermione finds her way up to Ginny’s room rather more than an hour later, pulling at the nightgown that somehow doesn’t seem to cover as much as it did earlier in the evening, she feels as if she has even more questions than she did before.

She remembers Luna's endless questions about the difference between kissing and snogging. She remembers the feel of lips suddenly against her own—no bumping of noses, no awkwardness, but a sudden feeling of heat and edgelessness.

No words. She wants to be able to describe it, to categorize it, to find the words for what has just happened, but she can't, and that's more than a little frightening.

She doesn't remember saying anything. She doesn't remember him saying anything. His eyes, black and deep in the dark, posing problems but providing no solutions. (Times when they're not necessary.)

Hermione would have said, if she had thought to say it, that she was ready to give Ron anything, would have liked to give him anything.

But he didn't ask. Not everything. And so she finds herself entering Ginny's room hungrier for him than she was before.

Ginny peers at her with a look of blissful omniscience that Hermione knows cuts right through her—as if Ginny can tell where Ron’s hands have been, where his mouth has been, where _Hermione’s_ … “Go well?” Ginny asks.

All that Hermione can do is nod. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top is "The Moon Between" by Antosha.


	21. Give & Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it is better to receive than to give. (Harry/Ginny, NC-17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few things about this chapter.
> 
> First, like "Engagement" this chapter appeared in an earlier version. Like "Engagement" it was always intended to be part of this story; I've made some minor changes to get it to fit the cycle better.
> 
> Second, this chapter was inspired by two pieces of wonderfully erotic **(and very NSFW)** art by reallycorking. I'll link to them later in the chapter.

Ginny's eyes flick open: the door to her room has clicked shut. Pre-dawn light gilds her room, turning everything from her bookshelf to the bright blue Tutshill Tornadoes poster a pale gold.

Something is off.

Hermione’s bed lies empty, but Ginny knows she got up hours ago—couldn’t sleep because of whatever seems to have finally— _finally—_ happened with Ron.

Who would peek into Ginny's room at five in the morning? Her mum seems likely, but Molly Weasley is preternaturally skilled at moving about the Burrow in utter silence. Her dad is on some assignment for the Order, having promised that he'd return by her party tonight.

She hears a rustle. Inside her room. She grips her wand under her pillow.

The wards around the Burrow have been doubled—the whole DA watched in fascination, Hermione and the Ravenclaws taking notes as Bill and Fleur wove new defensive charms around the ones that already defended the house. Order members have been taking turns watching the perimeter of the property before the wedding.

Harry…

Another sound—a quiet-as-owl-wings footfall. Coming towards the bed.

She rather wore poor Harry out last night. They've been discovering that there are all _sorts_ of ways to fit his body into hers, and she determined to explore as many of them as possible last night. The feeling of power as she sat astride him, watching him…

Another footstep, almost too soft to be heard.

“ _Accio Invisibility Cloak!_ ” Ginny hisses, and is relieved and amused when a shimmer flies into her hand revealing in its wake her astonished boyfriend, still on tiptoe.

Totally naked.

“Good morning, Harry,” giggles Ginny.

“Uh,” Harry manages, frozen in place. “Happy birthday?”

“Yes! And I've already unwrapped my first present!”

He straightens up and a smile twitches on his lips. It always makes Ginny's heart flutter a bit to see him smile—to see him smile because of _her_. He never smiles enough, especially of late—she knows how anxious and frightened he’s been, hell, how frightened _she_ has been, and so the sight of that smile, of those green eyes pinching the way that they do when he laughs, it all makes her feel… It makes her feel. There are no words.

“Well,” he says at last, stepping towards her with a rather dangerous look on his face, “I thought I gave you your first present last night. And second. And third. But the one I have in mind for this morning is... special.”

“Oh,” she responds, and his widening grin made an entirely different part of her anatomy flutter.

“Yes. This is a present I've been wanting to give you… for a very, very long time.”

Ginny has gone from sleep to fear to amusement in a few short moments, but the sound of Harry's voice and the promise in his eye takes her someplace else entirely. She feels her cunt, still a bit sore from the exertions of the past few days, flower open. “Oh,” she murmurs again.

He leans forward and kisses her. Kisses her fully, leaving Ginny feeling far more naked than even sex ever has. She feels transparent, utterly exposed, as if this kiss reveals everything to Harry: not only her body, inside and out, but every little fear, every ugly little secret, every time she has wished him ill, or herself ill, every time she has dreamt of finding herself back in the Chamber of Secrets. It is exciting to expose herself to Harry, but it is terrifying as well.

He breaks the kiss and smiles, and Ginny feels herself breathe again. “Least _you_ had a chance to brush your teeth,” she burbles, arms crossed in front of her diamond-hard nipples.

He gives a soft laugh. “You taste fabulous,” he says, plucking her wand out of her limp hand and leaning back forward. Not into a kiss this time—his lips brush along her cheek and back to her ear. He murmurs, puffs of warm desire, “I want to taste you, Ginny. Every bit of you. I want to devour you whole. That's your present.”

“Okay,” Ginny answers, her voice suddenly very high.

Harry's hands move under her t-shirt—his t-shirt actually. She feels her wand’s handle sliding up her spine as he lifts the fabric. Her arms are still crossed and she can’t manage to uncross them, to reveal this too, to let him see how a kiss and a caress and a smile have evoked such desire in her.

“Going to let me take this off, or do I have to Vanish it?” he mutters, letting his tongue slide along the lobe. “Yum.”

Trembling, Ginny grabs the battered Gryffindor Quidditch shirt and pulls it up. Harry is straddling her legs, his body pressed close to hers, and so as the shirt lifts, it exposes her body to his. She knows that body intimately now, but it feels cool and alien against her bed-warm flesh. Her breasts bounce free, the nipples buzzing as they slide against his ribs.

His tongue continues to explore her ear, the side of her neck. She whimpers with disappointment when he backs away to allow her to lift the shirt above her head, but once the horrible, offending shirt is gone, he attacks the bottom of her chin and works slowly around to the other ear.

His tongue finds its way in and she gasps.

“Lie on your belly,” Harry says.

Ginny stiffens.

“Come on, Ginny. I've got your wand. Don't make me use it.” His tone is playful and light and so-so-so _sexy_ , but what on earth…? “Trust me, Ginny.”

Moving with arms and legs that seem to have gone boneless, she rolls beneath him, feeling his testicles brushing along one hip and across her bum. “I t-trust you, Harry. With everything that I am.”

He sits silently across her backside for a moment, and she feels him shudder. Then she feels him casting some non-verbal spells—two or three, but none of the ones that she's gotten used to, the Prophylaxis and Lubricus Charms that they'd been quickly perfecting. Something tingles across the whole of her skin; a squelching sound comes from the door.

_What…?_

He shifts forward and brushes her mane, still wild from last night's exercise, off of her shoulders. “Last fall,” Harry murmurs, a little more loudly now—( _Silencing Charm?_ )—as he leans further forward still, “I dreamed about doing this. I had the most amazing, explicit, exciting dream of lying right here on your bed, naked against your naked back, kissing my way across every… single… freckle.” He is as good as his word. His lips touch at the back of her neck and begin slowly to meander down the line of one shoulder. A vibration passes from each point of contact down through Ginny’s cunt to her toes, which flex against her sheets.

“And as I kissed each one,” he says, continuing his sweet torture, “I tasted you.” His tongue passes down the top of one shoulder blade. “And you tasted _so good_.”

He kisses her spine and Ginny releases a breathy moan into her mattress. “I… d-did?”

“In the dream you tasted like cinnamon sugar and treacle tart…” _His favorites_ , a part of Ginny's mind sighs. He licks and nibbles along. “But nowhere as good as you do in reality.”

Ginny knows where this is headed. Knows what her bloody birthday present is. And a part of her wishes he'd get _on_ with it, but a part of her… Oh, a part of her, most of her really, is so awash in sensation that the idea of doing anything but feel those lips, that tongue, those teeth slowly make their pilgrimage down her back is simply unimaginable.

At the point of each hip, he gives a gentle nibble—her bony bloody hips that she's always hated so, but _ohhhhh_ …—and then, as he reaches the dimple at the base of her spine he gives a long, languorous lick that carries him back up to the ribs.

There is nothing muffled about the moan that Ginny gives this time. She arches back like a cobra, her breasts bouncing tautly, and gives a good, Gryffindor growl.

Harry laughs, kissing her on each shoulder and running his hands back down her sides—the first time he had touched her with anything other than his mouth. “Shhhh…. I haven't shown you the whole dream yet…” He kisses his way back down her spine, more lightly again. “I tasted _all_ of you, Ginny.”

His mouth reaches that dimple again, and his hands rest on her buttocks and urge them apart.

She squeaks. For the first time in years and years, Ginny Weasley squeaks, fighting him in spite of herself. “Oh, Merlin, Harry…”

“Shhhh,” he soothes, kissing gently down the inner edge of one buttock and up the other. “It's all right.”

 _Cleansing charms_ , a giddy part of her brain realizes—that must have been what he was casting before. “It is. _Oh,_ it issss…!”

He touches his tongue to a place about which Ginny thought as little as possible—really, it is a nasty, purely functional part of her body, isn't it? But the feel of his tongue, of his breath against her wrinkled flesh causes a wet wave of warmth to explode through her pelvis and she presses back against him, writhing. The first small orgasm of the morning. “ _Merlin_.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, his voice husky.

_He's going to fuck me there, he's going to fuck my arsehole, oh…! Please, Merlin…_

But Harry begins kissing and nibbling his way down her trembling thigh.

_Some other time, perhaps…_

He continues to move slowly, deliberately, savoring her like a fine bottle of mead. “That was the end of the dream,” Harry says, his voice low and urgent. “Came all over my sheets. Woke up thanking God your brother and Dean couldn't practice Legilimency.”

Of course, he says this just as he begins laving attention on the back of her knee and she starts to giggle. “Stop it!”

He snorts too. “Stop…? You want me to…?”

“ _NO!_ ” she howls. “Oh, Merlin, NO! Please, Merlin, Harry, don't, please, don't, _ohhh…”_

He begins kissing her feet.

Another part of her body that Ginny has never thought of as anything but utilitarian. He nibbles at her ankle, licks at the instep, sending sparks right back up to Ginny's center, and then sucks Ginny's big toe into that moist, hot mouth, triggering another roman candle in Ginny's pelvis. “ _HNNNNH._ ”

Cool air washes over the toe as he releases her, and once again she whimpers.

Once again he says, “Roll over.”

This time she does not hesitate.

Harry sucks each of the toes on the other foot into his mouth in turn, and Ginny pushes up onto her elbows, staring at him, at this boy who was barely able to kiss her a few months ago, but _now…_

“G-ginny,” he mumbles, kissing his way at a steady, studied pace up her leg, “I, I wanted to do your whole front too before—”

“Later,” Ginny urges, her own voice suddenly low with need.

He nods and works his way up the inside of her left thigh, trailing his tongue as he goes.

“AHH!” Ginny stares down into his eyes, green eyes, and the light of dawn breaking through the window washes across his back and his bum and it feels as if the whole world is glowing.

Harry's mouth meets Ginny's cunt and suddenly she can't look anymore. She closes her eyes, and her leg curls of its own accord over his shoulder and her chin droops to her chest.

Harry did this just before the first time they made love. It was the most wonderful sensation she had ever experienced. But this…

The sunlight is inside of her. The sunrise is at their union.

And it _flares_ …

Ginny's eyes flicker open; the ceiling is pink with the dawn. She is panting.

Harry kisses his way up her belly. He is getting the front after all.

At each breast, another small sunburst.

His mouth meets hers. She tastes the salt from her body—when did she start sweating?—and the tang of her own cunt and the tiniest bit of his toothpaste.

“Happy birthday, Ginny.”

“Mmmmmmmmm…”

His smile is full and broad and Ginny feels as if her own happiness is going to overflow her body and drown them both.

She pushes him back.

“Ginny?” Green eyes blink, suddenly concerned.

“Lie back,” she says.

He gawks at her.

She picks up her wand from where he abandoned it in the sheets. “Don't make me hex you, Potter. It _is_ my birthday, after all.”

“Sure…” He flops back, his legs over hers. They stare at each other, each propped up on elbows.

His cock stands proudly, twitching to his heartbeat.

Ginny spins onto her belly, her feet up in the air, and begins to run the tip of her wand up the inside of his leg. He shivers.

What to do? What does she want?

His cock.

She sticks out her tongue, touches the tip to the base of his cock and licks slowly up its length. Harry lets out a strangled gasp.

 _Mmmmmmmm…_ Here’s something they haven't tried.

“Ginny,” pants Harry, “you don't have to…”

“Shh,” Ginny commands. She grasps his erection with one hand and studies it; it seems so lovely, nothing so scary, really, is it? In fact… “I've been wanting to give you this… for a very, very long time.”

He gulps.

“I want to taste you, Harry. I want to swallow you. I want to devour you whole.” Savoring his gobsmacked expression, the golden light, the flavor of him, the feeling of him, the closeness of him, she leans forward and does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter — and in the middle — are Reallycorking, "Ginny's Birthday" and “Harry’s Birthday” — used with permission.
> 
> I adapted this chapter as a piece of original erotica, [Under the Covers](http://stillpointeros.com/product/covers-top-2-new-adult-mf-erotic-romance/?utm_source=AO3&utm_medium=BTTG). :-)


	22. A Gathering of Serpents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory. A thought. A need. A fear passes from one mind to another, linking them all.

Severus Snape stares down into the steaming cauldron, thinking of memories that he cannot remember.

The silvery tendrils of steam curl around his hair, bringing to mind sessions spent over swirling silver thoughts…

It is quite disconcerting to remember oneself standing above a Pensieve, staring into its silvery depths, but to have no memory whatsoever of the memory that you placed therein. Disconcerting in the extreme. Insidious.

Because, of course, the simple fact that you can remember remembering them renders you just as vulnerable, even though you can no longer bring to mind the events that have been stored away. Just as vulnerable, or nearly.

And, of course, Severus Snape finds his own insufferable curiosity betraying him. He remembers fighting with the old man this past year, for example—remembers seething afterwards at the stream of platitudes and sophistry—but he cannot remember what it was that the fights themselves concerned. He knows that poor, pretty, well-named Narcissa got him to take an Unbreakable Vow—he knows this because the Dark Lord told him so that horrid night that he and Draco first fell back among the Death Eaters, the night that Nagini transformed poor, pretty Narcissa into the Dark Mark incarnate. But he does not remember the Vow itself; he must have placed the memory of that moment in the Pensieve late in the year, since he has flashes of knowing its contents at times during the year—when he discovered Draco skulking outside of Slughorn’s ridiculous party he had known it, he is certain. And now he lives in fear that he will inadvertently trip the curse, taking some action banned by the vow, and so hasten his doom—a doom that needs no hastening since it seems to be bearing down on him with the speed and inevitability of a diving dragon.

Draco’s life. And making sure that he succeed in his mission to kill Dumbledore. Severus Snape knows that that must have been part of the oath—he all but said so to Draco after Slughorn’s party. But more?

There are too many bonds pulling at him. Some day he shall certainly slip and his various obligations will tear him to shreds.

The Unbreakable Vow. To protect Draco—and whatever other codicils Narcissa larded it with.

The equally absurd and inescapable wizard’s debt to James Potter and to his brat. How he has tried to rid himself of that onus, and yet he can never quite manage to save the thrill-seeking simpleton’s life and void the debt. Insufferable. The memory of this obligation too is hidden, but its effects upon him are all too obvious to be mistaken—from the _inside_ at least.

The Dark Mark, of course. A stain upon his very soul, and one that he knows he will never shed.

And another. Unknown and unknowable, and yet as conspicuous in its absence as that idiot Potter trying to hide under his Invisibility Cloak in the rain, some tie shackles him to Dumbledore’s interests, the memory of which has been locked away in the headmaster’s office for eighteen years—some spell or geis or weird or oath or doom that Dumbledore felt sufficed as a surety of Snape’s support for the headmaster's own cause.

He remembers listening outside of that fraud Sybill’s room at the Hog’s Head. He remembers slithering away with news for his lord. But he does not remember what happened in the interim. He remembers the prophecy of course—“born as the seventh month dies.” But he cannot remember going from the door to his room. He only remembers sneaking out later that night.

He has no memory whatsoever of interviewing with Dumbledore for Slughorn’s job, though he must have done so. This gap has troubled him always.

The death of the Potters. The apparent destruction of the Dark Lord. That he remembers. That he remembers and regrets on more levels than he can say.

In just the same manner is he haunted by the memory of the headmaster’s open blue eyes. “Please, Severus,” he pleaded, but his mind sent a simple, piercing message: _Do it._ And so Severus did it.

But he regrets not knowing _why_.

In the unlikely event that he survive the current struggle—whichever side wins—he would like to reclaim all of his memories, to discover once again the reasons, the causes, the contributing factors, the chain of circumstances that has lead him to this place.

But for now, even were Dumbledore’s Pensieve and the memories that it contains at hand, it is too dangerous. For all of his brilliance, the Dark Lord has always lacked Dumbledore’s subtlety—it never occurred to him to store his spy’s memories safely away. Yet he is hardly stupid. Soon, soon Severus knows that the Dark Lord will become suspicious of the lacunae in Snape’s memory. It is harder for even the most gifted Legilimens to notice what _isn’t_ there, it is true, but Snape has found it impossible to keep his mind from worrying at the edges of the missing bits, and now he finds himself terrified that his own inability to keep his thoughts from straying will put him in a position where he will be praying for a beam of green light from his master’s wand, rather than suffer the slow torture of having his mind shredded, ransacked.

Stirring the Wolfsbane anticlockwise one last time, he sets it to simmer. Well, to be honest—and who questions Severus Snape’s honesty?—he sets it to stew; he loathes Fenrir Greyback even more than he loathed Lupin and can hardly stop himself from over-boiling the potion.

And so he doesn’t bother stopping himself.

Yes.

It will take some time to prepare, a month or perhaps two, but it is time. Time for Draco to accept Pansy’s proposal.

Before Halloween. That has always been a deathly time of year for Snape.

Flexing his hand—even after all of these years, stirring for an hour steadily is tiring, and stirring by spell is never as effective—he reaches for his writing implements.

***

> _Once preparations are made, we should avail ourselves of this avenue at the earliest convenient opportunity._

Draco looks up from the unsigned missive to his elf. “Fetch me parchment and ink,” he snarls at the creature, and the elf obeys. He looks down at the cramped, unmistakable script of Snape’s letter. Of course the old bastard must gratify his sense of mystery. Of course he couldn’t actually _say_ anything. Even though he and Draco both know perfectly well what’s being talked about and were the communication to be intercepted they would both suffer, regardless of the subterfuge.

Cloak and dagger nonsense.

With a _pop_ , the elf reappears. “Fetchins is bringing Master Draco his paper and his ink.” The miserable creature is quivering in what is no doubt a combination of excitement and well-deserved fear.

“Quill, idiot!” Draco snaps, landing a backhand on the slimy little thing’s cheek—not too hard, but forceful enough to get its attention.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” snivels the elf. “Master Draco sir does not say a quill is needing to be brought, but Fechins should have been knowing, Master Draco, sir—”

“Yes,” snarled Draco. “He should have.”

“Fetchins is a she-elf, Master Draco sir.”

Draco merely flexes his hand. Eyes wide, cowering, the elf disappears with a loud _pop_.

With a sigh, Draco deflates into the mattress on the floor of his small room—looks up the slanting ceiling and wall taken up entirely by a door. The house elf’s quarters that are his only safe haven in his own manor. Even his servants live in fear of the Dark Lord’s fickle wrath, and so Draco is forced to live among them, literally _below-stairs_. It is humiliating, as the Dark Lord intended it to be. Yet here his elves may treat him with the deference due to a Malfoy and their master.

Fechins, whose sex remains an inconsequential mystery to Draco, pops back into Draco’s broom cupboard of a room bearing a battered old black quill.

“That’s the best you could do?” grumbles Draco.

“Fechins is sorry, Master Draco, sir, but the Dark Lord is sleeping the werewolveses in the storage rooms so no elveses can get in without they bite us.”

Draco almost orders the little simp to go back, biting or no, but the truth is that he cannot spare a servant, even a cowardly one, nor can he afford to have the elves’ continued allegiance to him trumpeted to the Dark Lord’s slipper-flat ears. He dismisses Fechins with a negligent flick of his fingers.

The parchment, like the quill, is not the Malfoys’ finest, and so it lies dingily on the board that serves as Draco’s desk, too dark for Draco’s liking: a skin-tone color several shades darker than his own, which has, at least, maintained through all of the horrors of the past year and a half its aristocratic pallor.

Pansy’s skin.

He sits there, staring at the parchment for a good twenty minutes before cursing himself. It is not his fault that Pansy has been consorting with blood traitors and… Potter. Not his fault, though possibly to his great advantage.

Two things about his liaison with Pansy infuriate him nearly as much as her non-denial of her plotting with the Order and those Potter-loving buffoons in the DA: that she managed to wriggle out of him, in spite of all of his desperate attempts at discipline, that pathetic display of weakness in her arms; and that, afterwards, after he had taken her, had paid her back for her disloyalty—make use of it though he might—that he had spent the past few days wracked with _regret_ , pinched by remorse at the memory of the bruises that his fingers had left on her hip. At the tears…

The worst is that he finds himself missing _Myrtle_ of all creatures—he could rail and shout, sneer at her, throwing things at her, and she didn’t care. She was just happy that he kept coming back. Unlike Potter.

Coming back and crying.

Pansy wants him to come back too, he’s sure. She must. She knew what she was getting into—he could see her trepidation when she started to tell him her plan. She didn’t expect him to be happy about it, and she knew the price of making Draco Malfoy unhappy.

Still, her plan has a number of merits, as even Severus the Spy can recognize. If only…

Crying.

He remembers the last time that he cried in front of some one—in front of an actual _person._ His father stood above him, glaring at the broken crystal phial. He summoned an elf—Droppy? Blobby?—and ordered Draco to stand there while he proceeded do beat the sniveling creature with his cane. All the while delivering a lecture on taking responsibility for your actions. When he finished, he snarled at Draco, “Clean your face,” and Disapparated.

Draco learned his lesson well.

That potion—golden, opalescent. Felix Felicis. How—or with whom—had the Pater thought he was getting lucky that night?

It felt good to get lucky with Pansy. Even with her tears smearing the mascara she loved so all over her Slytherin green silk bedspread.

Yes. Too good an opportunity—an _avenue—_ to let disappear. The old greasy-haired half-blood is right.

Shivering himself out of his distraction, Draco smoothes the rough parchment on his rough lap desk. Using a Cutting Hex, he attempts to give the quill something approaching an acceptable point, but the damned thing is too soft. Grumbling imprecations to Fechins that the house elf can undoubtedly hear in these cramped quarters, he proceeds to write.

***

> _Ma p’tite sérpente,_
> 
> _How good it was to see you. My body aches for you still._

Pansy frowns down at the paper. _Not as much as body aches from you._ Then a shudder passes through her. _And_ for _you too, Merlin help me._ In spite of it all, it thrills some secret, schoolgirl part of Pansy to have him flattering and flirting with her, even if it is on third-rate parchment. And even if he only flatters when he wants something.

She continues reading.

He does want something. He wants to take her up on her “invitation.” The language is vague enough that one might think that Draco and the other Slytherins will be dropping by for tea. But Pansy knows that that is not the point of this letter.

Draco is desperate.

Draco needs her.

And again, a part of her goes moist and gooey and randy at the thought of Draco Malfoy needing her. Of him _coming_ to her.

Even as a part of her snarls that he can go bugger himself for all she cares—the Dark Lord is welcome to him.

Pansy finds herself choking on emotion. Not one feeling, certainly. Several. Anger. Desire. Deep, ironic amusement. More than a small _soupçon_ of fear.

She is not a delicate flower. They’ve played rough before now, she and Draco, and it isn’t as if her liaisons with the others—Smith, Blaise, Montague, Weasley—have been all rose petals and gillywater. But somehow this last time—was it just Tuesday?—was different. When Pansy tried to convince Draco to abandon the Dark Loony, he’d responded so… _humanly_ at first. And then…

Then he hurt her. She can feel the marks he left, can feel the fury that rose in her at being violated, being pushed into powerlessness not as part of some elaborate game, but because, in that moment, she was truly at his mercy and he showed none. She had hated him in that moment—hated and loathed and feared him.

Yet Pansy longs for him. Why?

Weasley. Weasley whispering into her ear while he took her, down in Kent. Weeping into her breasts as she gave herself to him on the train. In the bloody girls’ loo the night that it all fell to shit. Oh, the feeling of him inside of her. Against her. Talking to her. Listening to her. And yet so utterly _not hers_. Why is it that she finds herself daydreaming of red hair and sweat even as she’s pining for smooth, pale skin and impossibly white eyelashes?

She wants Draco.

She would like… Ron. Again.

To be honest a part of her would just like to get out of here. _Maman_ has been all but catatonic for weeks. Papa has been almost totally absent. The last time Pansy saw him—two nights ago—she went down to the kitchen to talk to him about Draco, about how she could hate him and love him so and what she could possibly do about it. Papa understands these sorts of things.

When she got there, however, he and Gupta Patil were shouting at each other through the Floo: something about Galleons missing from the partnerships vaults. Mr. Patil, who has always been so genial and deferential around Papa, was furious. Papa was shouting back, but she knew his look from the times that he had attempted to hide his dalliances from _Maman_ —he was cornered and he knew it.

She fled up to her room—the elf brought up her supper—and she’s barely stepped out since. Romance novels. Filling half of a diary with doodles of phalloi and chests and Draco with an oversized cauldron falling on his head. Three owls: Daphne, desperately trying to convince Pansy to join her in wheedling her way into one of the DA sessions down in Devon (still sniffing after Goldstein; pathetic); Teddy sounding her out about whether Draco was really a danger to little Eri (if he only knew) and had she heard about what happened to both of his parents, and whether, possibly, supporting the Dark Lord might be a bad idea after all; and now this from Draco.

She’s not going to Devon. She can’t imagine simply giving in to the insufferable Potter and his sycophants. Not even to see… She’s not simply going to give Granger the satisfaction. She can’t stand the idea of the bucktoothed swot gloating at her, no doubt clutching on to Weasley’s arm….

Also, simply joining the _other side_ would put Papa in a very bad position, even worse than the one he is already in. Of that, Pansy is quite certain.

And yet…

And yet: red hair and freckles and Ron within her and against her. Balm to the injuries that Draco gave her, body and spirit. Balm to her body and spit in Draco’s eye. _Weasley is our king…_

And all to get Draco—and Millie and Tracey and Greg and the rest—back.

She can have her cake and eat him too.

She reaches into her nightstand, where she has secreted a sheaf of lined ledger parchment—the kind that goblins and accountants use. It amuses her to play the role of the Squib cousin, amuses her that Ron feels compelled to hide the truth from Potter and the Mudblood. Well, she probably is related to the Weasleys at some point, frightening as it is to admit, so it is not _entirely_ a lie.

Dipping her quill into a bottle of violet ink, she writes:

> _Dearest Cousin Guinevere,_
> 
> _I hope this finds you very, very well. I have not heard from you in some weeks, and yet our last meeting remains fresh and treasured in my mind and heart._
> 
> _I have received news from some of the friends that you wished to invite for tea. At present some thirteen guests are interested in joining our party, which I would love to arrange at my house. It will take some time for everyone’s schedule to clear—at least a month and likely more._
> 
> _I would dearly love to renew our conversation from the last time that we met. I found it most stimulating. Perhaps I could prevail upon you to join me at my cottage to review plans for the tea._
> 
> _Yours with love and lots of kisses,_
> 
> _Your loving cousin Lancelot_

Pansy pauses, smirking at the discomfort that she knows Ron is certain to feel reading the last few paragraphs. Remembering her other correspondents and realizing that there was a way to take care of all of her troubles at once, she leans forward again and adds a postscript.

> _PS Please forgive me for sending this via such unfamiliar messengers. I have no wish to have this correspondence delayed. They are at least as trustworthy as I am myself; please treat them well. They have terribly good reasons for wishing to join your little round table._

Pleased at last, Pansy leaves her room for the first time since breakfast to roust one of the family owls.

***

You never should have agreed to this, you know. But Pansy is persuasive, and Daphne is unrelenting—even now, she’s chattering at Eri, though what she’s so excited about you’re uncertain—and your own interests were so deeply at risk that you allowed yourself to be talked into a desperate gambit that you never would have made six months ago.

“Come along, Eri,” you mutter once you’ve cleared the wards around Greengrass house, attempting to drown out Daphne’s incessant prattle. “I’ll take you Side-along.”

“Now, we’re going to Apparate to their lane,” Daphne says for the twelfth time, “the little spot where it widens at the twist. You remember.”

You grunt and look down at your sister, who smiles her two-hundred-years-of-innocence smile. This is why, finally. “Yes,” Eri says for you. “We remember.”

When the sensation of being sucked through one of the tube-turners that your mother always used in her sewing has passed, it sounds as if you’ve arrived just next door to a major battle: there are shouts and the unmistakable sounds of Stunners hitting shields. Instinctively, you pull Eri tight behind you and whip out your wand.

“Silly Teddy,” says Daphne, patting your arm, “it’s just the training.”

Gripping your sister’s hand in your own damnably moist one, you follow Greengrass, who is all but skipping up the way. You clear the copse, coming into view of the most ramshackle house you’ve ever seen—it’s not the hovel that Malfoy always claimed the Weasleys lived in, nine people in two rooms, guests in the chicken coop, but it’s not exactly a masterpiece of classical design either. At the very least, it’s a testament to the occupants’ skills with Charms.

To the right, through the rest of the small wood, the sounds of battle intensify. You turn and follow Daphne—and Eri, who now leads _you_ —toward the uproar. In and around what looks like a hippogriff paddock stand well over a hundred Hogwarts students—lots of Gryffindors and ‘Puffs, more than a few ‘Claws. And scattered among them a small but identifiable number whose robes are trimmed in silver and green.

Behind the melée stands an absurdly ornate pavilion of white silk with a fleur-de-lys pennant flying from one parapet. A pair of enormous Abraxans are lapping at what is no doubt a trough full of whisky, paying the uproar around them no mind whatsoever.

The tumult takes even Daphne aback. The three of you stand there, astonished, and watch what reveal themselves to be pairs of students in groups taking it in turn to fire Stunning Hexes at each other and blocking them. You know that spell well—your father flashed it at you and your sister more than once in fits of pique, and you can see immediately from the intensity of the red light that the group closest to you, a dozen or so, several with red hair, are firing the hex at a strength that would knock an adult witch or wizard cold for hours were their partners’ Shield Charms to fail.

None do.

In spite of yourself, you gulp. You have been thinking about this fool’s errand in terms of getting Eri away from the Dark Lord, from Malfoy, from your father, but now you are confronted by just what it is you’ve run _toward_ : a large group of people who either don’t know you or don’t like you because of who your father is, because of whom you’ve associated with over the years on the those infrequent occasions when you’ve associated with anyone, and who seem quite well equipped to make you suffer for the folly of coming here unprotected and unannounced.

A magically amplified voice calls out, “Halt!” and the mayhem ceases almost immediately. All of the black-clad forms turn towards a wizard with grayish hair. Is it that werewolf Defense teacher—Lupin, wasn’t it?

He applauds briefly, then begins to talk, not amplified this time, and the crowd gathers around him as he strides towards that closest group.

“Should we go down, now?” asks Daphne, and you can hear that she is as shaken as you are.

“It seems like a good time,” Eri urges quietly

You shake your head. “Let’s wait—”

Suddenly, the group in the middle—several redheads, yes, but at least one black and one frizzy brown—turn and utter an incantation accompanied by a twist of their wands. They are not facing directly towards you, and yet you can feel both girls join you in preparing to duck or run when twelve…

Twelve magnificent apparitions spring from the casters’ wands: a dog, an otter, a swan, a unicorn, a pair of foxes, a couple of smaller creatures that are hard to identify at this distance, something that you had thought until fifth year was a product of your imagination—a Thestral—and largest of all a spectacular eighteen-point buck.

While the other spectral animals gambol about to the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ of the students, the buck trots up the hill towards you. You know you should fear this creature and yet…

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” murmurs Eri, and you cannot help but concur. It comes to rest immediately before you, its huge, pearlescent eyes gazing down at you calmly, devouringly.

“Come join us,” says the stag in a voice that you have heard only at a distance, but would recognize anywhere.

Both girls gaze at you, wide-eyed. Eri tucks herself behind your arm, but doesn’t take her eye off of Potter’s apparition.

You nod rather more steadily than you feel you should be capable of doing and the buck turns, walking calmly before you toward the crowd. They are all staring at the three of you as you approach: Potter, several Weasleys—including the notorious twins—Granger, the big Bones girl, the old Ravenclaw prefect Chang, Loony Lovegood, with whom you once had a remarkably peculiar, exhaustive and exhausting conversation about the reproductive habits of Bowtruckles. Off to the side, Glady Harbottle and Roddy Harper, who should at least sympathize with your predicament but are staring at you just as warily as the rest. The werewolf, who is standing back and watching the crowd watch you approach. Draco’s black-sheep cousin at his side, who was playing Auror at Hogwarts this past year, though her hair is now the brightest pink you’ve ever seen outside of one of Eri’s childhood drawings.

Just when you are feeling particularly glad that you have a large, conjured beast between you and the less-than-welcoming throng—no matter that it was conjured, and by someone whom you have no reason to think bears you any good will—the silver stag bows his head and dissipates into the afternoon sunlight. Daphne has joined your sister not quite behind your back.

A vaguely familiar ‘Claw boy with a caterpillar moustache from your year—what’s his name, Gold-something? Goldstein, yes—walks out, peering first at Daphne, then at you and your sister, then back at Daph. “Have you come to join us?” he asks.

In that moment what you want to do is scream, “Merlin’s bloody bollocks, of course not!” You recognize this soft-soaping simp as one of the six who ambushed Draco, Greg and Vince on the train after fifth year. You are acutely aware of the hundred wands that are casually pointed not quite in your direction. You shrug.

“Of course,” burbles Daphne, as if you weren’t under threat of sudden, instant and even immediate death. “We’d love to.”

“Yeah?” Weasley—the tall one—saunters toward you.

Goldstein steps in front of Daphne and barks loudly, “This is Daphne Greengrass. We’ve revised together.”

That, of course, is the highest endorsement a ‘Claw can give.

He squints at you—trying to remember your name, probably—and there’s an awkward moment while Ron Weasley glares at you, Granger tugging at his shoulder.

“This is Theodore Nott,” says an airy voice that manages somehow to carry throughout the glade. Luna Lovegood is smiling at the space between you and Eri. “And I believe that this is his sister.”

You’re about to say something appropriate—probably something appropriately snippy that will get you hexed six ways from Sunday—when Eri steps forward and nods at the odd blonde ‘Claw. “I like your necklace. It’s very pretty.”

Lovegood cocks her head and stares her disconcerting stare at Eri, who doesn’t seem at all disconcerted. “So are you,” she finally answers.

There’s a roll of laughter through the crowd, and suddenly you don’t feel quite so at risk.

The short Weasley—the girl, Weasley, the one that Blaise’s tongue was always on the floor over: Ginny—giggles and holds up a necklace of linked corks that matches Loony’s. “She’s made me one for my birthday. Perhaps if you’re _very_ nice to her she’ll make you one too!”

There’s another group chuckle that covers Eri’s response: “I’d like that.”

But Loony hears and nods.

Potter appears as if by magic by the redhead’s side and looks at Eri very cagily. “You… look familiar.”

Oh. Blast. You’re about to say something about her being a second-year after all when Eri pipes up again. “That was Vincent, not me. That’s why we’re here, you see. I found the idea of big Vince Crabbe Polyjuiced as little me quite funny, but Vince kept making odd comments about it, and about how Draco treated him, and it got rather creepy actually, and Teddy doesn’t want me to be anywhere near them.”

You remember Vince’s actual comments all too well, and Malfoy’s behavior towards the simulacrum of your sister went far beyond creepy, even if it wasn’t she herself.

Again, you are very aware of a hundred eyes locked on you. This time, however, in spite of your own sense of shame, you seem to have met whatever test those eyes were subjecting you to. Granger extends her hand, first to Eri and then to you. “You’ve got a good brother, then,” the Mudblood announces.

As much as it would have turned your stomach to shake a Muggleborn’s hand last year, now you accept it as the welcome seal of approval that it is in this place.

“I’ve always wanted a brother,” moons Loony.

“No, you haven’t,” grunts Ron Weasley, but even his eyes have taken on a kind of grudging respect. Bloody Gryffindors.

“Speaking of brothers!” calls out Draco’s cousin Nymphadora for everyone to hear, “Ginny’s brothers—and her mum—should be just about ready with her birthday tea.”

Ginny Weasley beams at Eri, at Daphne and at you. “Mum’s made enough for an army,” she says. “I don’t think she’d mind three more. Please join us, and we’ll get you up to speed.”

Before you have a chance to assent or refuse, the entire army—Dumbledore’s Army; Potter’s army—are stumbling back towards the ridiculous house. Goldstein keeps his hand on Daphne’s elbow as you all turn to follow the route, but in typical Daphne fashion, she stumbles, throwing herself at Ron Weasley, who catches her. “WHOOPS! Clumsy me!” she simpers, writhing against the poor boy like an eel.

Granger glares at Daph. Goldstein looks as if someone’s peed in his Christmas pudding; hands in pockets, he shuffles off to join Terry Boot and some of the others from his house.

When Daphne has regained her feet—Weasley doesn’t look as if he’ll ever quite regain his composure—she falls in next to you. Eri is chatting with Ginny Weasley and her particular friend Loony, who is going on about the significance of the various butterbeer corks on her necklace, and so you lean over to Greengrass, who may be silly but is never giddy, and whisper, “What the bloody hell was that dumbshow about?”

Daphne’s soft jaw takes on a hard set. “Doing someone a favor.”

You know Daphne Greengrass well enough to know that there’s only one person that she owes enough to do _favors_ for. “Oh, bloody hell, Daph, what in the hell kind of favor could _Pans_ —”

“Shtum!” she hisses, and you comply.

In front of you, Ron Weasley walking along behind Potter and Granger. He seems to be worrying at something in his robes—he pulls out a piece of lined paper and glances back at Daphne, who is ignoring him extravagantly; frowing, he unfolds it.

“Hell,” Daphne sighs with great drama. “I’ve done my favor, and now I’ve shot my chance with Anthony.”

Goldstein. “Anthony?”

“Shtum,” she says again, and her tone is, for Daphne, deadly serious. “Didn’t think I was doing this out of idealism, did you?”

“No more am I,” you answer, Slytherin to Slytherin, but she has already wandered off into the crowd—seeking Goldstein, no doubt, though you are fairly certain that she’s correct, that she’s queered her prospects there quite well.

You look over at Eri, who is linked arm in arm with the birthday girl and with the lunatic. She is smiling, and you try to remind yourself that this is why you’re here.

Sighing you look forward at the Gryffindor Triad. Granger and Potter are walking close together; Weasley looks as if he is trying to work out some puzzle—you’d imagine that it wasn’t a terribly complex one, but you know from Tracey that he’s a chess master, so perhaps he’s not as thick as he looks. Potter is muttering something to Granger, who murmurs back very quietly—though not quietly enough to evade your excellent hearing—“Perhaps. And I’m glad they’ve come. But I do think it’s advisable to keep a close eye on them.”

Smart girl, that Granger—even Professor Snape admits it in private.

“We don’t know a thing about the Notts, Harry, and Daphne Greengrass is Pansy Parkinson’s best friend after Millicent Bullstrode—”

“They’re okay,” mutters Weasley, making Granger jump rather cutely. He holds up the bit of lined parchment. “My cousin sent me a letter—that’s why the Greengrass girl fell into me, to pass me the note.”

His cousin. That’s a laugh.

“And Parkinson isn't so bad,” Weasley continues in an overly casual tone that tells Teddy far too much.

“Ron!” gasps Granger. “She's Malfoy's girlfriend, for goodness sake! _She's_ the one who came up with that awful song!”

“It's his theme song, now isn't it?” says Potter with an easy grin.

“Besides,” says Weasley, staring at Granger, “you can't help who you love, can you?”

The troop arrive at the house; there is a table set with drinks and sweets, and balloons fly over head. A fat, short woman who must be Mrs. Weasley calls out a welcome to everyone, and you gather around as she brings out a huge pink gateau with a candle. As everyone sings, a laughing Ginny Weasley pulls Eri and Luna up with her and they blow out a candle. Ginny, though she may not be looking at him, seems preternaturally aware of Potter, who is standing neither too close nor too far from her, but is smiling at her in a manner that seems rather…. intriguingly dirty.

Weasley and Granger share a look that could vaporize Dragon blood.

Daphne’s making doe-eyes at Goldstein, who is pouting while watching Ginny Weasley cut the first piece of cake.

Eri looks out at you, her wise, guileless eyes bright for the first time in far too long and in spite of yourself you too find yourself suffused with contentment.

An army is a myriad of relationships. Bonds forged one link at a time.

For this, for your sister’s smile, for the possibility of a future that doesn’t include being at either the sending or the receiving end of Unforgivable Curses, you’ll even eat pink cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from TomScribble, detail of “Prongs” — used with permission.


	23. A Father's Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having seven children is an exercise not in division but in multiplication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, aberforths_rug, who has been thinking a lot about Ron lately... and got me thinking about Ron.

Arthur sits in the kitchen, knowing he needs to be elsewhere. _Just a tick, then I’ll get my dress robes on and help with everything…_

The fact of the matter, however, is that he can scarcely stand. The Minister couldn’t keep him at work through his oldest son’s wedding, but he didn’t seem to think it inappropriate to involve him in a series of pointless and humiliating raids that took up several nights _before_ the wedding. Arthur has hardly slept all week.

He doesn’t like to think ill of any one, least of all someone who as earned such respect as Rufus Scrimgeour has, but it has struck Arthur that recently his former fellow department head has been acting a right prat.

A mild scent of roses and sleep brings Arthur to himself somewhat, and a small, warm pair of lips press on the top of his far-too-exposed head. “Good morning, Dad.” Ginny shuffles around to the stove. She is still in her sleeping things—loose bottoms and an enormous one of those Tea Shirts that Muggles favor so, and that she probably thinks they don’t know she knicked from Harry some time back. “Get you some tea?”

“Coffee’s more the ticket, I think,” he mumbles to his daughter, whose fine mane of hair is tangled atop her head. “Where’s your mum?”

“Over with the enemy camp,” Ginny says with the wrinkle-nosed smirk that’s always made him smile. “Sit, I’ll get it started.”

Bowing to the pleasure of watching his daughter fuss over him, he slumps back into his favorite chair—the one facing the stove. He’s always loved to watch Molly in the kitchen. “You shouldn’t call them that, you know— _the enemy camp._ Your mother and Fleur’s have been getting on famously.”

“True, but I can promise you she’s not about to let Madame Delacour do all of the cooking, no matter that _they’re_ hosting the dinner. Mum headed over to the pavilion at daybreak like she was going to some duel, armed to the teeth with knives and ladles.” Ginny lights the stove expertly with her wand—something that Arthur knows he ought to discourage her from, but honestly, in these days, it’s a comfort to see how proficient their baby has got with a wand, and so he lets it slide. She squints at him like a Healer at someone who’s gone and Splinched himself. “Have you even been to bed, Dad?”

“No, sweetheart. Had a kip in my office yesterday teatime, but I haven’t properly slept since…” He ponders briefly, and then shakes his head. “Well, since some time ago.”

She tisks at him quite adorably. “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee. You should be up to bed.”

Arthur shrugs. “And miss out on the day of my eldest son’s wedding? Not on your life, love. I can always sleep tomorrow.”

For some reason this statement saddens Ginny—she bites her lip and turns back to the kettle and the coffee makings.

“Have you not been sleeping well, Ginny-bug?” Arthur asks. “Your hair’s a regular rat’s nest.”

Ginny blinks at him, and then turns away, now looking less sad than bashful. “I… I’ve been sleeping fine.” She sprinkles a touch of cinnamon into the ground coffee—just the way he likes it, though no one else in the family does. “I guess I’ve been dreaming a lot.”

“Those must be some dreams,” Arthur says with a smile. Ginny runs her fingers though her tangle of hair, gives it up for a bad job and starts to pour the water through the cone. “You excited about the wedding?”

Now Arthur can see a huge smile warping and warming his daughter’s profile. “Of course. Even if I do have to be got up as a Galleon-colored pastry.”

“Rather be wearing white?”

Ginny snaps around to face him, eyebrows suddenly very high. After a moment, she turns back to the brewing coffee so that he can barely hear her murmur, “Not yet.”

“No,” her father agrees. “Not yet.” _But some day you will walk down the aisle of St. Catchpole’s_ , he thinks for the very first time, _and I will walk beside you._

  
  


***

  
  


Arthur is humming to himself, sailing along on his second wind, striding about the garden and Banishing some leaves that have fallen into what will be the site of the wedding in another eight hours or so.

When he turns towards the field of chairs to begin clearing the dew that glistens on their white backs, he sees one slumped figure at the back, under the plum tree that they planted for Molly’s brothers, the poor sods.

A sprawling, gangling, redheaded figure, head held in hands, elbows propped on knees.

“Good morning, Ronnie!” calls Arthur. The boy scarcely moves, and so his father walks over and sits beside him—Ron is staring down at the ground with a fierce glare that Arthur has never seen him spare anything but a chessboard. “So, son,” Arthur says, sitting on the wet chair beside his youngest boy, “which are you planning, a Quidditch match or a murder?”

This at least gets Ron to blink, and then to snort—not altogether lost, thank Merlin. “Not this morning. Too early to fly, too tired to get fussed enough to kill.”

“Well, then,” muses Arthur, “it must be something to keep a growing boy such as yourself away from all of the food that’s being prepared over at the Delacours’ tent.”

Ron sighs and stares up at the literally enchanted bower that will serve as the altar this evening. “Dad,” he begins, but stops.

Arthur waits. If seven children have taught him anything it is the value of patience.

At last Ron heaves an even deeper sigh and looks back at the ground. “How do you know, Dad?”

“Know?”

“How… When you asked Mum, what did you see? How did you know?… I mean…” Ron begins threading and unthreading his enormous fingers as if playing _This is the church, and these are the people._

“Do you mean,” Arthur asks, “how did I know she was the one?”

Ron shakes his head, then nods, and finally releasing a growl of disgust. “I know you all think it’s simple, but… There’s a girl, or you look at a girl, and she just drives you to distraction. But you can’t stop thinking…” He leans forward so that he seems to be looking at the ground again. “It’s not _girls_ I’m confused about—well, I’m always confused about girls, because, I mean, come on. But it’s _me_. How did you get to the place where you just _knew_ , and you didn’t have any second thoughts or doubts or other…?”

“You don’t, Ron. That’s the truth. It _isn’t_ simple.” Arthur has had variations on this conversation with each of his sons—all but Percy, who had been too shy, too proud or both. Even George… But he has never managed to answer the question to their satisfaction or to his. “You don’t know, not ever,” he answers at last. “Not even after. All that you can do is follow your heart, listen to your head, hope for the best and trust yourself.”

“Trust myself?” Ron seems to puzzle at this.

“Yes, son,” Arthur says. _The rest of us do._

  
  


***

  
  


His second wind is fading quickly. The sun has cleared the trees, and he finds that he is feeling as if someone has cast a Levitation Charm on him—which sounds as if it should be a pleasant experience, but isn’t.

An army of blondes and redheads are swarming around him, moving far too quickly to be recognized. Over by the kitchen door, laughing with his youngest, a groups stands still: a girl with brown hair, a boy with black, and a blonde like none of the others—it’s always good to see old Mercury’s daughter. She’s always been a sweet child and a good friend to Ginny. If a bit odd.

He closes his eyes and feels the sunlight blowing against him like a girl with strawberry blonde hair. Like the wind through the reeds.

Just as the wind feels about to carry him away, a heavy pair of hands land on his shoulders, anchoring him to the ground. “Whoops.”

Arthur blinks. One of the twins is holding him steady. He’s wearing a button that flashes _Je m’appelle George et je suis le plus beau._ “George?”

“Looks like Snaps was right,” says the broad face, grinning—so much like Fideon. Gabian. “You’re about to pass out on your feet. C’mon, Mum and Mrs. Delacour have this crowd under control. Let’s get you up to bed. A good nap’ll have you all set to make trouble this evening.”

“Trouble,” mumbles Arthur, scarcely able to resist as the thick hands propel him toward the house.

“Yup,” laughs George, “I’m going to keep my eye on you, young man.”

“Heh,” Arthur giggles.

“No tricks, George,” says a bright voice as they pass into the cool dark of the house. _Ginny._ “He needs to be in one piece at the wedding.”

“Yessir, General Snaps, sir!” barks George, and the slap of the door closing cuts of a volley of laughter.

“Tired,” says Arthur.

“No wonder,” says George.

As he collapses onto the bed that he has shared with Molly for the past thirty years, some part of Arthur’s brain is clear enough to register that he is unhexed, unjinxed, unpranked. _Good boy, G…_

  
  


***

  
  


“Oy, Dad, Mum’s about to kill someone. Time to get up.”

Arthur tries to sit up, but he feels as if his robes are soaked in molten lead—hot and heavy. He flops over onto his back, hands searching frantically for his glasses.

A cool hand places them in his.

“Thanks,” Arthur mumbles, putting them on. The same broad face, but this boy has a button that reads _Je m’appelle Fred, et je suis le mieux monté._ “Fred?”

Fred raises an eyebrow, and then smirks. “Well spotted, Dad,” he says, tapping the button. “Here.” There’s a light, splashing sound: Fred has conjured a glass and filled it with water.

“Thanks.” The glass is cool in Arthur’s hand. The water is cooler in his throat. “So, your mother is on the war-path?”

“Apparently the Minister sent word that he wouldn’t be showing his pimply mug at Bill and Fleur’s shindig after all.” Fred says this with an uncharacteristic scowl.

His father sighs, “Well, that’s hardly unexpected. At least he owled.”

“Yeah,” snorted Fred. “But the note was in Perfectly Prattly Percy’s handwriting.”

“Oh, dear.” Arthur can see that his wife won’t have taken this well.

Nodding, Fred continues, “So Mum’s decided someone’s going to pay. And if you don’t get down there soon, it’s going to be Fleur’s dad.”

“Musyoo Delacour?”

“Yeah, he’s got antsy, I suppose, and he’s wandering around telling folks what to do. Most of us think it’s funny—Fleur’s little sister got all giggly when he started trying to tell Ginny and Ron and that lot to rearrange all of the chairs so that they wouldn’t face into the sun.”

“But they face north.”

“Yup. But Mum’s about to try out Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hex on him.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yup.” Now Fred is grinning—much more the boy Arthur knows. “So come on, work robes off, dress robes on, let’s make sure if Mum starts an international incident that we don’t miss it at least.”

“Right-o.” Arthur drags off the sweat-sodden robes that he’s been in for the past thirty-six hours, takes a shower and finds himself in summer-weight dress robes and feeling almost human within minutes. “Should have let your mother let these robes out a touch,” he mutters as he puts his glasses on and wanders out the door.

“Nah. When you wear dress robes you’re _supposed_ to feel like your fighting off a Lethifold.” Fred stops as they reach the top of the stair. “Hey, Dad, thanks for the tip-off last night.”

“Oh, believe me, it was nothing.” _Asking me to raid my own sons’ shop. Not showing up at a wedding. Acting a right prat._

“Yeah, maybe, but it would have set us back quite a ways if we’d had to get all of that inventory cleared by the Aurors.”

“Which is why it was nothing. Believe me, the other department heads were furious when they heard I was supposed to raid your place. The clerk staff for the Wizengamot alone is expecting, what?”

“Fifty shield hats.” Again Fred grins, though it’s a smile neither so mature as the grim one nor so boyish as the manic one.

“So there you are,” says Arthur. What he doesn’t point out, because he knows that his son won’t have thought of it and knows that it will only inspire Fred to do something rash is that the whole point of ordering Arthur to raid Weasleys Wizard Wheezes was to embarrass Arthur. So that the boys had the time to get the shop clean as a whistle—more ship-shape and Bristol-fashion than their room has ever been—is the best revenge a father or a Ministry official could hope for. “You’re welcome, son,” he says as they step into the kitchen.

  
  


***

  
  


  
  


Distracting M. Delacour proves to be remarkably simple. As soon as Arthur steps out into the garden, his son’s soon-to-be-father-in-law strides towards him, takes Arthur by the shoulders and delivers a manly kiss to either cheek. “I weesh to thank you for to let my Fleur to marry your son,” he says—the longest sentence Prosper Delacour has delivered in Arthur’s hearing since arriving in England.

Arthur attempts to demur. “The honor is ours, that your daughter—”

M. Delacour gives a quick _pff_ of dismissal. “My father, he fought the Grindelwald war, _oui?_ I know what it is to ‘ave a Dark Lord flying around. Eet is not only in one country, _oui_? _Si les peuples d’un seul pays souffrent, tout souffriront. Vous comprenez?_ ”

Arthur nods mutely, more than a little stunned that this reserved, elegant man is unburdening himself.

“Eet is peoples like my wife, like my daughters who will suffer eef thees _Vol-de-mort_ , ‘e ‘as ‘is way. _Les sângs-melés?_ The mixed bloods. At least they are all ‘uman. The Grindelwalds and the Scareds-from-Deaths—they are all the same. The weetch or wizard ‘o ‘as the Veela blood, or the Giant blood, they are the first to be ‘exed.” Prosper draws himself up to his not terribly impressive full height and manages to be more than a little majestic nonetheless. That your Beell and your family, you are embracing my Fleur in times like these—that is why we want to ‘ave the _mariage_ here. To show that just as you stand with Fleur, we stand with you. We are… We are family. _Oui_?”

“ _Oui_ ,” agrees an astonished Arthur Weasley, and he proudly endures another round of kisses on his cheeks before watching Fleur’s father stride off toward the pavilion.

“Gave me that same speech last night,” says a low, warm voice just behind Arthur.

“What?” Arthur turns to see the broad, heavily freckled face of his second-born. “Oh. Hullo there, Charlie.”

“Hey, Dad.” Charlie claps his father on the shoulder, a solid clout that would have knocked Arthur to his knees earlier in the day. “Yeah, three glasses of plum brandy after dinner last night and he started pumping me about Romania and dragons. Four glasses and suddenly Monsieur Delacour and I are swapping Veela stories. Five, and he’s weeping, swearing he’ll fight by our side.”

“Not tonight, I hope.” That’s been Arthur’s keenest fear—that You-Know-Who will take advantage of the wedding to attack.

“Nah, not bloody likely, more’s the pity. This’ll be the most heavily armed spot in Britain, between the Order, Bill’s Goblin mates and Ginny’s DA lot.” He winks. “Not to mention my pal Norbert and me.” There’s something about Charlie’s smile that makes it impossible to be too concerned about anything.

“So,” Arthur says, conceding the point, “how’s Bill?”

Charlie shrugs. “Cool as a bloody cucumber, like always.”

“Hmm.” Bill has always made a good show of being at his ease. “And you?”

“Me?” Charlie’s scowl has always made Arthur want to laugh—since he was a baby the width of his brow has made any frown a caricature of itself. “I’m fine, why not?”

“Well,” Arthur says as they reach the shade of the plum tree at the back of what will soon be the wedding site, “I remember when your uncle got married. I was glum for weeks.”

“What?” Charlie asked. “Uncle Bilius?”

“Yes. He was the first of us to marry—just like his namesake.” _Poor Bilius,_ Arthur thinks with an internal sigh. _Always afraid, and then all it took was a big, black dog…_ “When he married your Aunt Matilda, I felt as if I was losing him forever.”

Charlie shrugs. “Hadn’t thought of it that way,” he says. “How old were you?”

“Well,” Arthur hems before admitting, “sixteen.”

Again Charlie lifts his shoulders, this time with a gentle smile. “Well, yeah. I mean, that’s different.”

“I suppose,” Arthur admits, though he is thinking he himself was already courting Molly at the time, and that Charlie has never seemed to have as much success with girls at twenty-seven as Arthur himself had as a fifth-year. And under different circumstances he might ask—but not today. “How’s Norbert?” he asks instead.

This earns him a full-on grin. “Spiffing,” he chuckles. “Though I think he’s disappointed he’s missing the party.”

“Ah, but he’ll have you there to represent him,” says Arthur, and they share a deep, long laugh that startles several Delacours.

  
  


***

  
  


Sitting next to Bill in the front room, Bill looking quite natty in his white dress robes, apparently as cool as Charlie suggested, the only sign of nervousness the quick movement of his fingers over the pale traces of the scars upon his face.

Arthur Weasley does not consider himself to be a violent man, but if he could kill anyone—other than Lucius Malfoy, whose death in prison Arthur is ashamed to say gave him more than a small serving of pleasure—it would be Fenrir Greyback, who struck Arthur as a thorougly nasty piece of work before he threatened the life of his eldest.

“What are you thinking, son?” Arthur asks.

Bill blinks, gets up, moves to the door that leads the front hall and then walks back. “Thinking about Fleur.”

“That’s natural,” Arthur grants. “Nervous?”

Bill shakes his head and paces back to the door. “I was thinking. I was thinking that this wedding isn’t about us. As far as she and I are concerned, we didn’t need this. But the families—that’s what this is about.”

 _Especially the mothers,_ thinks Arthur, but he does not say it—indeed Bill probably wouldn’t have heard him if he did.

“The families, bringing the families together, making what we have part of that, like Mum knitting together two panels to make a blanket.” Bill is walking around Arthur’s chair in a quick circle. “But also all of our friends. This time. When so much awful stuff is happening, it seems so important to remind everyone what this is all really about, and it isn’t just babies or sex or blood purity or the family name, it’s the fact that there are people who love each other, and there is happiness, and no bunch of black-cloaked idiots can take that away, no matter how hard they try.”

Arthur takes Bill’s hand, stopping his son; he hasn’t held this hand since Bill left for Hogwarts. “Bilius Gawain, listen to me,” he finds himself saying. “I’m very proud of you, that you have grown into such wonderful young man, a man of true value. I’m proud that you’ve succeeded so at a dangerous profession and that, knowing the risks, you have chosen to join the cause that your mother and I have dedicated ourselves to. I’m proud that you have found such a lovely young woman who so obviously loves you. And I’m proud that you’re taking this step together. But this celebration, it _is_ about you. Don’t forget it. The people coming here today are here because they love you—because they want to show you how pleased they are to see you happy.”

Bill looks down at his father, his eyes wide.

Arthur can feel an upsurge of emotion—he is not an emotional man, and so it catches him more than a little off-guard, and yet he continues. “Enjoy today, son. Life is not always so full of light and wonder. There will be struggles and hard times all too soon—take pleasure in days like this for the rare gift that they are.”

Bill, who has likewise never shown much in the way of emotion beyond an easy smile or a smoldering glare, blinks at his father openmouthed. Arthur knows that if he gives in to the tears that threaten to overwhelm him, Bill will dissolve, and so, not knowing what else to do, he gathers his grown son down into an unabashed, unpracticed embrace.

Some moments later, there’s a discreet cough from the doorway. Arthur and Bill look up to find Harry Potter standing there, managing to look both solemn and embarrassed. “Sorry. Mrs. Weasley sent me back to let you know that they’re ready for you. It’s time.”

The two Weasley men stand. “Thanks, Harry,” says Bill, who squeezes the hand that Arthur still holds. “Thanks, Dad.” Eyes bright, stride steady, he walks past Harry, who follows him.

Arthur takes a deep breath and thinks about the large and expanding circle of his loved ones. _Bless you_ , he prays, _as I have always been blessed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is Antosha, “Le Plus Beau” — so mine. :-)


	24. And Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Neville] has never been to a wedding before. Though he’s related to most if not all of the pureblood families, few want anything to do with him or his grandmother—or certainly Uncle Algie—and his grandmother has always wanted even less to do with them. A part of him has been looking forward to this, is pleased to have been invited, but mostly he feels ridiculous in his pale blue robes, which used to be his dad’s.

Neville takes in a deep breath as always after Apparating, and immediately regrets it. His dress robes pinch. The old wand in his breast pocket doesn’t help, poking into his ribs as it does.

He has never been to a wedding before. Though he’s related to most if not all of the pureblood families, few want anything to do with him or his grandmother—or certainly Uncle Algie—and his grandmother has always wanted even less to do with them. A part of him has been looking forward to this, is pleased to have been invited, but mostly he feels ridiculous in his pale blue robes, which used to be his dad’s.

As he walks up the lane to the Burrow for what feels like the four-hundredth time this summer, Neville sees that there are dozens of other wedding guests striding along, but no one he knows.

The house itself seems almost transformed. Well, not the house, strictly speaking—it looks just as whimsical as ever. But the grounds seem almost literally to sparkle. He’s watched the preparations as he’s come to the DA meetings these last few weeks, but he had no idea…

There are several tents now in addition to the Delacours’ castle-like pavilion, each sporting a golden fleur-de-lys ( _Iris pseudamagicoris_ ) at one corner and what looks like a Gryffindor lion at the other. A field of chairs has been set up, all facing the bower that Neville has been admiring—Mrs. Weasley even let him do some of the enchantments to give the eglantine stability and shape. Fairies seem to have been encouraged to nest in it, so that even in the late afternoon sunlight the bower glimmers.

As he walks between the two smallest tents to enter the party, an incredibly muscular goblin and an even larger wizard ask him for his invitation, which he happily provides. He has just passed the checkpoint and begun to scan the crowd for Harry, Ron or Hermione when he hears a high voice calling his name. Ginny sprints towards him, holding the train to a set of robes that look like candyfloss made of spun gold.

Neville will never tell her this, but she looks absolutely beautiful. “Hey, Ginny,” he says, surprised as always when she throws her arms around him.

“Where’s Susan?” she asks.

“Susan?”

“Of course! I thought she’d come with you.”

“But…” Neville chews on his lip. “I mean, she didn’t get an invitation.”

Her train still held at her hip, she stares up at him, eyes bright, mouth to one side. “So who did you decide to bring?”

“Bring?”

Her mouth stretches into a lop-sided grin. “Neville Longbottom and Guest, silly. Who’s your guest?”

“No one,” Neville mumbles. “I thought it was meant for me and Gran. And she doesn’t like weddings.”

Ginny’s mouth snaps shut. “She doesn’t like _weddings_?”

“No,” Neville says, “she thinks it’s undignified to sit around crying and talking about how happy you are.”

Laughter blooms over Ginny’s face—it’s always been one of the things about her that Neville has loved the most, her laughter, and he allows himself to smile with her.

“So,” he says finally, “I guess Harry’s your guest.”

Suddenly all of the light and life that has been flooding from Ginny withers. “Hermione is my guest. Harry’s here with Ron.”

“Oh.” Neville wonders what can have happened—though they’ve never stood near each other at DA meetings, she and Harry looked… _fecund._ Flourishing. Happy. “I thought—”

“We broke up, Neville, at the funeral. Remember?” Ginny is peering up into his eyes in a manner that Neville has always found thoroughly bewildering in girls: they clearly expect you to pick up on something they’re _not_ saying, but Neville has a hard enough time understanding what’s actually _said…._

 _If Susan were here, she’d explain_ , he finds himself thinking, and shrugs in something that he hopes conveys assent.

“Well, it’s wonderful you’re here,” Ginny says, a small smile returning. A burst of French comes from the closest tent. “Blast. That’ll be Fleur, looking for me. It’s me and a bunch of French girls, so aside from her and Gabrielle it’s not even as if I can talk to anyone… Listen, I’ll see you after, okay? Save me a dance!” She lifts up on her toes and gives him a peck on the cheek and a wink before disappearing in a flurry of gold and white fabric into the tent.

Neville finds himself standing there, hand on his cheek.

Ginny is not the girl he thinks about any more when he thinks about such things. No more is Hermione. But they both have been, once upon a time, and a _kiss_ …

 _Save me a dance_?It occurs to Neville that she must be joking; though they both enjoyed the Yule Ball his fourth year, he knows for a fact that it wasn’t Neville’s lead-footed shuffling that provided Ginny’s high-point; for that matter, it probably wasn’t the kiss that he pressed on her under the mistletoe, the only real kiss he’s ever had and one that manages still to fill him with giddy pleasure and shame, both at once. _Save me a dance_.

Neville Longbottom and Guest.

Neville is about to slink back out the front gate towards the Apparition point when a familiar airy voice freezes him in place. “Hullo, Neville. How nice to see you.”

As always, Luna seems to be wafting towards him far more quickly than her legs appear to be propelling her—one of her many disquieting and remarkable traits. She is leading Eri Nott by the hand. The younger girl is in daffodil-colored robes, while Luna is wearing ones of light silver with her shoulders bare, and it doesn’t surprise Neville to find himself thinking that she too looks rather gorgeous.

She, of course, is another girl about whom Neville has occasionally had _thoughts_. She has become a very, very good friend, someone who never teases him, someone who always listens to him. And of course, they’ve fought together.

But she is also, Neville has to admit, a little terrifying.

“I hope you’ve been watching out for Snozzlewinged Flies—they always congregate where there are goblins,” she says, proving Neville’s point as she and the Nott girl float to a stop immediately before him.

Eri Nott is gazing up at him with the unblinking, belladonna-black gaze that is both like and utterly unlike Luna’s.

“Hullo, Luna,” Neville says, pulling at the collar of his robes. “Hullo, Eri.”

“I like weddings,” Eri says, smiling without blinking. “Don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Neville says automatically. “Erm, though this is my first one.”

“Then how do you know that you like them?” Eri frowns now, her ripe mouth pouting. Everyone has been talking about how pretty she is, how creepy it is that Malfoy was doing whatever nasty things he did to Crabbe while the huge Slytherin was Polyjuiced into her. But Ginny seems far prettier to him, with her sharp nose, thin lips and freckles, or Hermione with all of that hair. Or Luna, whose wheatgrass mop seems to have been gathered atop her head with what is either a tiny live snake or an elastic charmed to look like one. Yes. Bug-eyed and all, Luna looks very pretty tonight.

But not as pretty—

“So,” Luna hums, “is Susan coming separately, or is she worried about Snozzlewinged Flies too?”

“I…” Neville finds himself shuffling, looking from one unwavering pair of eyes to the other. “She, I didn’t know I could.”

“Ah, did you not read your invitation, then?” Luna is smiling as she says this, and he knows that she really is asking the question, there’s no rebuke at all behind her words.

Neville feels a bit stung nonetheless. “No. I read it. I thought… I thought it was supposed to be for me and Gran.”

“Oh,” say Luna and Eri together.

Luna leans towards him and says quietly, “I would have thought that Susan would have been a much more pleasant companion to an event like this.”

Eri adds, “She’s very nice. And very pretty.”

“Yeah,” Neville finds himself saying rather more fulsomely than he would have liked. “But I didn’t invite her.”

“That’s a shame,” Eri says, pouting. “She tells all those interesting stories about Azkaban.”

Because of Susan’s aunt. Her late aunt. “Isn’t that…? That must be hard,” Neville says, uncertain whether or not the Nott girl can be taken as much at face value as Luna. “For you and your brother.”

She cocks her head. “Why?”

Before Neville can frame an answer, Luna, who clearly has never gotten off of the original train of the conversation, takes Neville’s elbow in her free hand. “Then you shall have to sit with us.”

“Erm, okay.” Luna drags them towards the back of the seating area. “Hey, have you seen Harry? Or Hermione?”

“No,” Luna says and continues to glide forward with Neville and Eri in tow until they reach the back row of chairs.

They are stopped by another menhir-shaped goblin—or it may be the same one that took Neville’s invitation. He smiles a razor-sharp, menacing smile that’s probably meant to be friendly. “Bride? Or groom.”

Neville is about to answer _groom_ when Luna burbles, “Bride, please.” As the goblin leads them down the aisle, Luna says, “There are fewer on that side, and I do love to be close to part-Veelas, don’t you?”

“Mmmm,” murmurs Eri.

Actually, Neville does not love that at all, he finds them rather disconcerting and—in a funny way—unpleasant. But the goblin all but shoves them down to the end of the row past head after head of silvery-blonde hair, and Neville decides not to say a thing.

Once they are seated—he is between the two girls—Neville cranes around; he sees lots of red hair on the other side of the aisle, naturally, but none of the Weasleys that he knows—they must be in the wedding party, he supposes. Well, that only makes sense. Harry isn’t anywhere to be found either. But he catches sight of Hermione’s unmistakable curls in the second row, on the groom’s side. “I’ll be right back,” he says, starting to stand. “I just have to—”

But before he can finish his explanation, let alone his errand, a magically amplified trill of harp music stills the crowd. Bill Weasley has just strode up under the bower; Charlie and the other Weasley boys fall into line beside him, along with the thick goblin and another, less muscle-bound one. The guests all settle into their seats and Neville follows suit, frustrated once again.

Neville spots Harry sprinting back to his seat beside Hermione, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley taking their places in the front row.

Another elaborate harp-flow, and everyone twists back to watch the back of the aisle.

Gabrielle Delacour enters first, her gold robes looking just as beautiful as Ginny’s, but more little-girly, which Neville supposes makes sense. Neville remembers her from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and has seen her at DA meetings—not joining in yet, since she’s only eleven, but watching. Solemnly she walks down the aisle, scattering what Neville assumes to be _Rosa magifloribunda_ petals—yes, they multiply as they fall to the ground, carpeting the grass with a thick layer of burgundy red.

Behind her is Ginny.

“She’s quite beautiful,” Eri Nott whispers.

“Yes,” Neville and Luna answer. Neville blinks at Luna, and then back at Eri, who he suddenly realizes was looking not at Ginny but at Fleur’s sister.

Several more bridesmaids follow, and Neville thinks that perhaps he recognizes one or two from the Beauxbatons contingent that visited Hogwarts. Again, they are all beautiful—mostly blonde, faces proud. But Ginny…

What would Susan look like in gold—?

There is an audible intake of breath as the bride arrives at the top of the aisle with her parents. Fleur Delacour is covered from head to foot in white lace, tulle and silk. Madame Delacour is beaming, her white-blonde hair positively glowing in the afternoon sun. Monsieur Delacour looks on the verge of tears, his jaw set firmly as he walks his daughter towards her soon-to-be-husband.

Husband. Neville finds himself looking at Bill Weasley, whom he has come to know this summer as easy-going, quick with a joke, even when he was still suffering from the werewolf’s attack. Now he seems deadly serious, his eyes piercing, the pale scars on his cheeks rippling as he works his jaw.

The bride and her parents reach the bower. Fleur’s father says something to Bill as he is about to leave; Bill nods. Fleur takes her place.

For a moment there is absolute silence.

Neville recognizes the witch who presides over the ceremony; she is a chaplain at St. Mungo’s and very nice. He and his gran have attended services there a few times. Usually he likes to hear what she has to say—like the late headmaster, she has the ability to make even the knottiest questions seem simple. But now Neville finds his mind wandering, his throat thick, his pulse racing.

Husband.

Looking at the bride and groom, at the witches and wizards beside them Neville feels suddenly overwhelmed by the act that he is witnessing. Why? He knew he was coming to a wedding. What is this feeling?

He finds himself thinking of his parents, side by side in St. Mungo’s for the past fifteen years. Married. Husband and wife. They were only twenty when they married, just three years older than Neville is now. How?

Neville tries to imagine himself standing beneath a bower opposite a veiled woman in white. Tries to imagine himself making those promises. Tries to imagine any woman making them to him.

Ginny and Harry, sure, he can see that, no matter what Ginny says.

Ron and Hermione? Ernie and poor Hannah? How can anyone promise at seventeen to do _anything_ for the rest of their life?

He imagines himself lifting the white veil and seeing Susan’s face beneath—warm and smiling, eyes like rich earth.

Luna squeezes his hand and he realizes that Bill and Fleur are kissing. They are married. With everyone else, Neville finds himself cheering. Tears slick the tops of his cheeks. He grasps Luna’s hand hard in his. Just like at the headmaster’s funeral. _Sitting around crying and talking about how happy you are._

In the tumult within and without after the service, Neville forgets to find Harry and Hermione and it isn’t until they are swept along into the huge open tent in which the reception is taking place that he realizes that once again he has missed his chance. Many of the DA crowd are scattered about with their families. There are two ‘children’s’ tables, one to either side of the head table. Neville, Luna and Eri have been seated at a table with Gabrielle and a group of her young Delacour cousins. Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny are on the other side, along with a group of redheads who must be Weasleys but who all look too young to be going to school yet, except for one whom he vaguely recognizes. “Isn’t she a Slytherin?” Neville says, pointing.

“Yes,” Eri answers. “Mafalda Prewett. She’s the year ahead of me. I don’t like her.”

“Oh,” Neville says. The Prewett girl is talking to Ginny, who is laughing and nodding, demonstrating various parts of her robes. Hermione and Harry seem to be having a very serious conversation about _something_. Ron is between his two friends, his gaze far off. For the first time that Neville has seen all summer, he is smiling.

Luna is peering towards one side of the far table and then the other, so that the snake’s eyes glitter in her hair; Neville still isn’t certain whether or not it’s alive. “She’s the one who’s been giving the DA so much good information about the Death Eaters’ activities,” she murmurs, “or perhaps it’s her father.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Eri answers, her voice just as low. “The blood purity crowd at school quite distrust her because of her family connections, and her father is a Squib.” Eri cocks her head. “I don’t care about that. But she teased Teddy about his hair.”

Luna shrugs and tucks avidly into the first course.

The meal is amazing—a lot of foods that Neville’s never even seen or heard of before, let alone tried, but Gabrielle Delacour happily informs him of the name of each course and its ingredients. Eri Nott apparently speaks fluent French, and so she and Gabrielle spend most of the meal talking about _something_. The younger Delacour cousins sound as if they’re making the kinds of jokes about their elders that young kids generally make at adult functions. It’s funny to consider that he may be one of those elders.

Luna seems happy to sit in silence, and so Neville enjoys his meal in relative peace.

There is an extra chair at the table sitting empty. And Guest.

When the dessert plates are all Vanished away, Neville thinks that he will perhaps finally discharge his duty, but as he’s about to get up and cross the tent, another burst of magical music fills the air, and the bride and groom stand, walk into the area across which Neville was about to walk. Bill holds out his hand and Fleur—Fleur _Weasley—_ takes it and spins into his arms; they begin a slow, measured dance, and though they both have terribly serious expressions still, their eyes are bright.

Neville sits. He’s very good at watching others dance. And it is very easy to watch these two.

They move around and with each other as if neither one of them were actually moving, as if it were just some trick of the wind and the light that caused their white robes to swirl. Their eyes are locked on each other all the way to the last step.

Monsieur Delacour steps up to his new son-in-law and with the same fierce expression as at the wedding, speaks to him. Bill bows to Fleur and steps away as her father takes her in his arms and begins a waltz; he is not, perhaps, as fluid a dancer as Bill Weasley, but watching the two Delacours dance still makes Neville’s breath catch.

Bill takes his red-faced, red-eyed mother in his arms and sways her gently to the music. Leaning down, he whispers something in her ear; she laughs.

The people at the head table—the parents, most of the groomsmen and bridesmaids—stand, taking each other’s hands. Fred and George grab a pair of Beauxbatons girls, pulling them onto the dance floor shrieking with French laughter.

Through the gathering crowd, Neville sees Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry standing at their table, all frozen. Ginny frowns, biting her lip. Hermione and Ron shuffle painfully beside each other. Harry clenches and unclenches his fists, staring down at the floor. Finally, Ginny reaches over and pulls her startled brother out into the swirling mass of dancers.

“I’ve kissed them both, you know,” Luna whispers more than usually airily in Neville’s ear.

“I… You what?”

Luna has, Neville ascertains, had rather a lot of wine with dinner. “Harry and Ginny. I’ve kissed them both. As part of my on-going research into the question that we were discussing on the train ride back.”

 _There’s much more reason to believe in Nargles and Humdingers._ “Oh.”

“Have _your_ researches been fruitful?”

Eyes like rich earth. “Erm. You want to dance, Luna?”

“Oh,” Luna says, blessedly leaning back from him. “No, thank you. I don’t like to dance.”

“Neville,” says Eri Nott, “would you dance with Gabrielle?”

“Erm?” Neville really didn’t wish to dance. He doesn’t know what made him ask Luna.

Eri continues, “She’s the only attendant who isn’t on the floor. I’ve asked her to dance myself, but she doesn’t think that would be appropriate.”

Gabrielle Delacour smiles at Neville, pretty as her sister but without the somewhat terrifying _hauteur_.

“That would be very nice of you, Neville,” says Luna, who smiles a bit blearily at him.

“Erm. Sure. Gabrielle?” He stands and extends his hand, because somehow that’s how you’re supposed to do this. She puts her ridiculously little hand in his and they walk onto the dance floor—barely avoiding one of the twins careening across their path with a cackling bridesmaid. Once they reach a somewhat empty spot, she steps in front of him; reflexively he puts one hand on her hipless hip, and they begin to shuffle and sway in place.

Charlie Weasley dances by with his mother, who is laughing, her hair flying.

“I am not ‘oo you weesh to _danse_ weeth, _non_?” says Gabrielle.

“Oh!” Neville looks down at her, mortified, but she is smiling. “Well, it’s not you—I’m just not much of a dancer.”

“Eet is all right. There ees someone ‘o I weesh would _danser_ weeth me, but ‘e weell not. I am not for ‘eem.” He follows her gaze over to where Hermione is doggedly pulling a rigid Harry onto the dance floor.

“Oh.” Neville looks down at his miniscule partner. Gabrielle’s eyes are sad—little-girl sad, and it suddenly strikes him that he was her age once—that he was her age when he stood up to Ron, Hermione and Harry that night in the common room, that he was her age when he fought both Crabbe and Goyle at the first Quidditch match. “It’s okay. It’s nice dancing with you.”

She smiles up at him, that dazzling Delacour smile. “ _Merçi, Monsieur Longbottom_. Sometimes eet ees _juste_ nice, ze _danse_ , _non_?”

“ _Non._ I mean, _oui_.” Ginny and Ron fly by, doing some sort of intricate routine involving lots of spinning; they are both smiling. Neville and his partner shuffle in place for a few more minutes, Neville mostly trying not to step on Gabrielle’s feet, and mostly succeeding.

When he sees Hermione’s mop of hair suddenly appear over Gabrielle’s head, Neville sees his chance. “Excuse me,” he says to his partner and taps Harry’s shoulder. “Switch?” he says, though he’s sure that isn’t how you’re supposed to do this.

Hermione and Harry blink at him; Gabrielle has gone frozen in his arms. Then Harry smiles and says, “Sure, though I can’t promise Gabrielle I’ll be as good a partner.”

Gabrielle’s lips move, but Neville can’t hear any sound come out. Harry takes Neville’s place and for all that he’s leading Gabrielle in the same sort of stiff-legged lean-and-step that Neville was, she looks as if she’s being swept across the floor in some sort of waltz or tango or something.

“That was very sweet of you, Neville,” Hermione says, stepping close to him, and—Oh, Merlin—beginning to dance. Of course, Neville _did_ ask.

“Yeah, well,” Neville mumbles. After a moment he remembers to say, “Besides, there’s something I need to give you.”

Hermione frowns. “Give me?”

“Yeah,” Neville answers with a nod. “I’ve been trying all evening, but it hasn’t been easy to get one of you. I’ve been to Diagon Alley—finally got in to Wode and Burl’s. Picked myself up a new wand.”

All frivolity leaves Hermione’s face—she has on her familiar, terrifying, close-to-finishing-an-essay look. “The old one?”

“In my breast pocket.”

He feels her hand slide into his robes and pluck out the old wand before he can even entertain any hopeful thoughts of what she might be up to. Then her hands are back in place. Where she’s put the wand, he assumes he’d rather not know.

She smiles up at him, looking very pleased. “Do you have any idea what that wand is, Neville?”

“I know it’s old,” he says, shrugging as he shuffles.

“It was Rowena Ravenclaw’s wand. We’re pretty sure that Voldemort”—Neville wishes he could suppress the shudder that runs through him at the sound of that name, even whispered—“cast a really foul enchantment on it, back before he disappeared the first time. He’s desperate to get it back. If we can get rid of it, he’ll be all the more vulnerable.”

Rowena Ravenclaw’s wand! No wonder it didn’t respond to Neville terribly well. “You’re… You’re not going to have to destroy it, the wand, are you?”

Suddenly Hermione looks much less certain of herself. “I hope not. That would be an awful shame, wouldn’t it?”

Nodding in agreement, Neville watches Ron go by; he’s now dancing with Gabrielle, who is giggling madly.

Hermione is watching them too. “So, Neville,” she says, “what about your new wand?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Neville gushes. “I mean, I’ve been hearing all of you talk about the wand choosing you all these years, and I thought it was me, you know, because even the one Mr. Ollivander sold me didn’t really respond, but this one? I picked it up and it was like the magic was flowing up from my feet and out the wand.” He ducks. “It was lovely.”

Hermione is smiling at him, not at all indulgently, which makes Neville smile back. “That’s wonderful, Neville! Finally to have a proper wand! Is it like your others at all?”

“No—this one’s holly, about eleven inches long—longer than either of the others—with a phoenix feather core.”

She blinks. “That… That sounds like a lovely wand, Neville.”

“Thanks. I’ll show it to you once—”

There is a tap on his shoulder. “Oi, Neville.” It is Ron. “Can I break in?”

“Uh, of course,” Neville says, looking at Hermione’s face, which seems to be conveying so many emotions at once that it might shred itself. “Sure. Yeah.”

He steps back. Hermione moves into Ron’s arms and they begin to dance the way Neville can only dream of dancing—like their bodies are sharing a brain, as if they’re two plants with a single root. Gabrielle is off dancing with her new brother-in-law. Neville shakes his head and starts to walk off of the dance floor.

“Hullo, Neville,” Luna appears directly in front of him.

“Uh, change your mind, Luna?”

“Change?” She puts her hand to her head and frowns.

Neville knows Luna well enough now to know what’s happened. “No, I mean, your opinion.”

“About what?” she asks, looking thoroughly bemused, which is saying something with Luna. “I like to think that I’m open-minded, but I rarely change my working hypotheses without solid evidence, you know.”

“Uh, yeah, I know. I meant about dancing.”

“No, I still think that it is a poor substitute for other, more direct mating rituals, and it makes me feel awkward, which I don’t like at all. No,” she says, suddenly looking past his shoulder, “I came to bring you _off_ of the dance floor.”

At first he thinks perhaps that she is trying to tell him that his dancing too is awkward, and he begins to feel more than a little embarrassed, but he follows her gaze off to the side of the tent and there, standing in the shadows in midnight blue robes that make her pale skin glow is Susan Bones. And she is looking directly at him. Smiling. “Oh. Er. Thanks, Luna.”

“You are welcome, Neville, always. And if you happen to change your standing with regards to the existence of love as a concrete fact, please do let me know.”

Before he can answer, she’s wafted off into the crowd, and honestly, he’s just as happy, because he finds himself pushing across the distance between him and Susan with far more energy than he’s felt all night. The heat of the evening flows through him as he approaches her—her brown eyes full and glistening. Once he reaches her, he finds he cannot speak.

“Hi, Neville,” she says finally.

“Wow” is all that he can manage in reply.

“Oh.” She ducks her head. “After Ginny Floo’d, I thought I’d come right over, but then it took me forever because I couldn’t find the right…” She looks into his eyes hopefully. “You like it?”

“Wow.”

Susan laughs, and honestly, the world could be burning, a cinder, and that sound would make Neville feel as if he had stepped into a clear spring.

They stand there, on the edge of the party, gazing into each other’s faces until finally—the heat? The two glasses of wine? The dancing?—Neville takes Susan’s hand. “Can… Can we go talk?”

“Do you not want to dance?” Now she looks uncertain.

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do, but I want to talk, I have…” He begins to walk her towards the Burrow. “There’s some things.”

“Oh.” Susan walks beside him, hand clasping his, but she is not looking at him now.

They walk together, the din of the music slowly fading, through the site of the wedding until they are standing beneath the bower. The fairies are glowing brightly; their light catches the chestnut color in her hair and she looks at him, trusting, open, maybe a bit nervous and so, so lovely. He almost can’t stop himself from simply leaning in and kissing her, but he remembers the one time that he did that before, and the memory of that—of Ginny staring up at him, not unhappy but not exactly pleased and definitely surprised—stops him. “Susan.”

“Hmmm?” she says. She looks down now, picking something from the front of her robes.

“Susan, I…” What does he want to tell her? To ask her? “So, Ginny Floo’d?”

She blinks and nods. “Yeah. Before the wedding started, I guess. Said that you… Said that there was a guest who hadn’t come.”

“I was an idiot,” blurts Neville. “I didn’t realize I could invite you. I would have. You’re the one I’d have invited. Honest.”

“Oh.” Now she’s looking back down. At his shoes?

“Here’s the thing, Susan—” Before he can articulate the thing, however, before he can ask her or tell her whatever it is he’s been dying to ask her or tell her all summer, a pair of figures appear out of the darkness, arms intertwined, robes swirling together so that there is no space between them: Ginny and Harry.

“Hey, Neville,” Harry says, smiling more broadly than Neville can ever remember him smiling. “Hullo, Susan.”

“Hullo,” Susan says, and now she is smiling too. Her hand still clutched in his, and clutching. “What a lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Ginny. She too is grinning enormously.

“We’re…” Neville starts but doesn’t know how to finish.

“Yeah,” says Harry with a nod as if Neville’s actually said something intelligible. “We’re headed…”

“…into the house,” Ginny finishes. “To check. On the oven. Mum thinks she might have, you know, left it on.”

“Oh,” says Susan, who doesn’t look at all concerned. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“No,” agrees Ginny, still smiling. “I looked for you on the dance floor, Neville. But it looks like you found another partner.”

“Er. Yeah.” He’s smiling too. He can’t help it. “You too.”

Ginny just grins.

“If anyone needs us…” Harry says, his free hand moving apparently of its own accord across the bodice of Ginny’s robes.

Susan nods. “We’ll send a Patronus.”

Harry nods back. “Oh. Yeah. Good idea. Thanks.” And with that—and a loud kiss—the couple disappear into Ginny’s house.

“I thought,” Neville says, “that they were broken up.”

“They are,” Susan says smiling after them—more of that understand-what-they’re- _not_ -saying thing. Neville will have to ask, but before he can, she continues. “Neville, you were saying?”

“I…” He looks at Susan. She has been his Herbology partner for years. She is one of the few people—aside from Harry, of course—who can understand what he’s been through with his parents. One of the few aside from Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Luna who even knows about his parents. Her hair is long and soft. Her eyes are clear and bright. “I… I like you, Susan. A lot. You know that, right?”

“Well,” she says, very quiet, “it’s nice to hear it any way.”

“Uh, yeah. Good.” Her other hand finds his, and they stand there, facing each other, and Neville feels like a complete idiot, but she is staring at him with such a look that Neville feels that perhaps he can do this. “See, I do. I like you. I have for quite a while. And I think… People keep saying maybe you like…”

She gives a tiny nod, eyes wide. “I do.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Oh.” There’s something opening out in Neville’s chest, like a seedling spreading its first leaves.

She seems very close now. “We should watch saying that here.”

“Saying?”

She glances up at the bower. “’I do.’”

Small tremors of laughter and of something else shake him. “Yeah. I… I do. Too.”

She licks her lips. “You know,” she says, “after you say that, there’s something a man gets to do.”

“Yeah,” Neville says, leaning in to Susan so that he can feel the flutter of her breath on his lips—

“Oi!” calls a Weasley voice, one of the twins’ probably. “There’s an attack on Diagon Alley! Neville, Susan, you coming?”

Neville glances up and half of the party seem to be streaming towards them, wands out—some breaking off towards the way and the Apparition point, and the others towards the house. Madame Delacour seems to be pleading with her husband, who is marching grimfaced alongside their equally serious eldest daughter and son-in-law, who are still in their wedding finery.

Neville groans, and feels Susan groan with him. They look at each other and nod. “Yes,” Susan calls, “we’re coming. Neville, I should send that Patronus.”

Unwilling to step back from her, he nods. “Oh, yeah. Good idea.”

She leans forward and gives him a short kiss. Right on the lips. Warm and wet and the little sproutlet within goes instantly into full bloom. “I do,” she whispers before turning and casting her bear cub Patronus and leaning down to whisper to it.

As he waits for her one of the twins—George if his badge can be trusted—pats him on the shoulder. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate.”

“It’s all right,” Neville says. And when Susan turns back to him and extends her hand so that they can walk towards the Apparition point, he realizes that yes, indeed, it really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is Antosha, “And Guest” — so mine!


	25. Flight of the Beautiful Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one of the Dark Lord's servants goes without a mask. (Pre-COVID-19, at least!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Another Big Budget Action Sequence™!
> 
> Oh, and a WWW shop that definitely seems to indicate a late-night viewing of Home Alone by Fred and George...
> 
> Warnings: Character death.
> 
> Thanks as ever to aberforths_rug, who made sure the Death Eaters stopped acting like the Keystone Kops.

They stumble quietly out of the Kwikspell offices, the Dark Lord’s voice still purring in Bella’s ear: _Make them pay, Fidelissima_. The pleasure of her master’s trust lends her the indulgence of a smirk at their ignominious point of entry—only Lucius would start such efficient business to separate desperate Squibs from their Galleons. He was useless and vain in most respects—as is his son—but he was very good at making money move in the proper direction. Another man she hardly misses. At least his death served the Dark Lord, unlike Rodolphus’s ridiculous demise, slapped off of his broom by a dragon’s tail, if you please. Pathetic.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange has always looked good in black, even poor, foolish Cissy thought so, but she is hardly a widow: her true lord and master lives forever.

Diagon Alley is deserted as they hoped; fear has eliminated the weak, and most of the foolish are either attending the obscene wedding tonight in Devon or guarding it.

A pureblood marrying a demi-human. It makes Bella want to curse someone.

Snape would do. It makes her smile to remember that the Dark Lord has seen fit to give the command for this mission to _her_ , not to the Half-Blood Prince.Severus has been simpering of late, but his star is definitely descending in the Dark Lord’s heaven.

“Should’ve just Apparated,” grumbles one of her troops—Amycus, most likely. He’s never happy except when there’s bleeding.

“Idiot,” Bella snaps, “you may not have had the gold to shop on Diagon Alley, but some of us did—the Anti-Apparition wards are so thick and over-lapped that the only safe place is the middle of the street—do you fancy having all thirteen of us Apparating into a strip of pavement two feet wide from Wiltshire?”

There are several chuckles and a mumble: “Should have gone to Devon. Just the next county down.”

“But,” says Bella, flicking a Stunner over her shoulder as she continues to stride forward, “the Dark Lord ordered us to attack _here_ , where we can do his enemies the most damage.”

There is no answer to that. Either the lesson has been learned, or the hex found its mark. Bellatrix finds that she is just as satisfied either way.

They are hardly the Dark Lord’s finest, her troops, but they are at least all veterans, many from the first war, and they are under _her_ command. She knows that they will do their utmost for her—they fear her nearly as much as they fear their lord—and their skills, while hardly awe-inspiring, are suited to the mission at hand.

Mayhem.

 _Make them pay, Fidelissima_.

Destroy a shop and anyone who happens to be in it. A simple mission with three major aims: a demonstration of the Death Eaters’ ability to strike at will, even at the center of the complacent wizarding community’s safe haven; a crushing blow to both the prestige and the cash flow of the one organization that has dared to stand openly against the Dark Lord; and an answer to a long, public series of provocations that the Dark Lord has determined shall be borne no further.

Any chances to kill, of course, will simply be welcome but unexpected dividends.

As they turn the corner just past Gringotts—don’t want to alert the Goblins, nothing to be gained in battling them—they encounter their first target of opportunity: a young wizard, an Auror, whose demeanor of utter boredom shifts immediately as they round the corner, masks down, black robes flowing. He fires a panicked hex over their heads; Toke answers in kind, but the Auror deflects the curse.

“ _Avada Kadavera_ ,” Bella drawls almost lazily, and the Ministry lacky collapses before the green afterglow has faded. “Idiots,” she snarls again, barely breaking stride as she steps on the dead Auror’s chest.

“ _Morsmordre_ ,” calls Rabastan with Gallic _sang froid_ , and the length of the Alley is bathed in green light.

“That could have waited, Rabastan,” says Bella, as she feels the Killing Curse’s after-affects wash through her: a bit of a drain, yes, but a hunger satisfied. She would like to have sent up the Dark Mark herself. It is the privilege of the one who has Eaten, who has performed the kill. But now they must act quickly, and so she will save any conversation about rank or tactics until later.

There is no mistaking their actual target once they reach it: the window display is both lurid and disgusting, lighting up the stores opposite in a garish display of lights. Over and over, an obscene caricature of the Dark Lord is struck by a green bolt of lightning and falls to his knees, struggling to open his mouth as a cackling, spectacled figure on a broom zooms over his head. A legend in purple and orange pyrotechnics proclaims, _SOMEONE’S NOISY EATING LIKE TO BE THE DEATH OF YOU? TRY OUR NEW! U-NO-CHEW! DISCOUNTS FOR STUDENTS!_

Enraged, Bellatrix sends a powerful Reductor Curse at the glass. The whole company is forced to duck as the spell rebounds straight at them. “TISK, TISK!” booms an insolent, grating voice from the storefront. “THAT WASN’T VERY NICE, WAS IT GEORGE?”

“NO, FRED,” giggles an indistinguishably insufferable voice as Bellatrix’s fighters get back to their feet. “IT CERTAINLY WASN’T! NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY!”

The entire company is caught in a foul, wet spray that Bellatrix can scarcely identify. As her companions groan at the stench and attempt to spell themselves clean, Bellatrix howls, “ _AFTER!_ Destroy this excrescence first, and then finish our mission! We can clean ourselves after we’ve erased this offense to our lord! Toke! Rosier!”

Snapping to attention, Toke and young Rosier, her cousin, get to their assigned job: breaking into the shop. Toke likes to claim that he is a master at forced entry, but you can never count on a Toke, and so Ralph Rosier is there to make sure that the job is done correctly. They begin casting a series of increasingly intense unlocking charms on the glass-paned door to the shop; at first there is no effect, but after several attempts, the door begins to send off bluish sparks. “NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY!” sneer the two amplified voices again. Amycus sends a Slicing Curse up to the first floor window—predictably, the spell bounces back, wounding the misshapen imbecile in his wand arm. A loud, rude sound issues from the window. Alecto starts to return fire, but Bellatrix grabs her arm. The Carrows are wonderful in a firefight it is true, but less than brilliant strategists. “There’s no one there, you fools! It’s merely a series of defensive charms. Toke, Rosier, finish this! We must complete our mission quickly.” Before the loud noise draws too large a crowd—a dozen or two would be a welcome challenge, but massed Aurors or the Order…

Ralph Rosier pushes his partner aside and casts the last tool in a Curse Breaker’s arsenal: the Exportus Curse—brutal, slow, noisy and likely to destroy not only the door but anything on the other side, it is hardly the best spell for robbing graves—or vaults—but just right for this job, Bella thinks with grim satisfaction. The sparks bathe the inside of the shop in flares of lurid light; the neat shelves and packed counters will burn most gratifyingly. And some Shield Hats and Peruvian Darkness Powder will replenish the Death Eaters’ stores nicely.

As the door begins to glow and shake, and then to send off blue sparks again; as the wrenching sound of the curse intensifies, the sparks turn green, then yellow and finally red. Rosier maintains the pressure, while Toke stands there wiping his brow.

Suddenly, the sparks coming from the door turn gold…

And Toke and Rosier begin to scream. They have sunk into the solid pavement past their knees. Desperately, they try to pull free, but the stone is solid. They cast frantic unlocking spells at their legs, but that only causes them to sink further. “ _HELP!_ ” screams Toke, like the pathetic girl that he is.

At that moment, green light flares from the other side the door—it comes from the back of the shop. Rabastan calls out, “Someone has activated the Floo!”

A red-haired midget flies into the shop, her wand tip alight, her oh-so-innocent golden robes disheveled about her. Bellatrix grins. She knows this one. She will provide good sport. And if Snape and Draco are to be believed…

The girl blinks, and then fires an intense Stunning Hex. Expecting the curse to rebound, Bellatrix is just as shocked as the rest of her Death Eaters when it passes unhindered through the glass door and catches the still-squealing Toke squarely in the chest.

“Pretty, pretty! Come to dance again?” cackles Alecto, and casts a Bludgeoning Hex at the Weasley girl. Once again, the window repels the spell and Carrow is caught by his own curse—this time it looks as if he won’t be getting up; the hex sounds as if it may have broken several bones beneath his mask. His sister falls beside him, screeching in rage.

Several more figures appear from the back of the shop: the Potter brat, whose robes and shirt are open, the naughty boy; the obnoxious Weasley twins; and a Goblin carrying a war hammer. The Floo flashes green once more, signaling new arrivals.

“Retreat!” Bella barks bitterly. “We’re sitting Diricawls here.” There was no point in staying in front of a window that allows those inside to fire at will, but repels all spells from without.

“Don’t leave me!” screeches Rosier before he is caught by a burst of red light and goes blessedly silent.

“Amycus!” bleats Alecto as Bella and the rest begin to move back toward the Kwikspell building. “You can’t leave him here!”

“Carry him, or leave him,” snaps Bellatrix. “He’s been a danger to himself and to us from the beginning of this mission. Now _move._ ”

As Bellatrix turns up the Alley, she sees a flood of white and gold pouring out of the front of Gringotts.

Trapped. One of the guests from the profane wedding fires a spell that flies over their heads and ricochets off of the façade of the building across the street from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. There is a small gap between number 93 and number 95. “In there. We need to get out of the cross fire.”

Soon Bellatrix and her troops—nine, now, Alecto fell trying to pull her brother to their sanctuary—are pressed against either wall of the tiny alleyway, dodging hexes cast by the wizards outside and returning fire to keep their enemies at bay; this they do very well, taking down three foolhardy souls who attempt to rush their redoubt.

“ _Ma belle_ , I will comfort you tonight, I promise,” Rabastan murmurs into her hair. He has this odd notion that she is lonely since her husband died, and that, as his brother, he should provide… comfort. It is quite disgustingly French, and quite disgustingly biblical.

“Shut up, Rabastan,” she snarls. When he chuckles, still breathing in her ear, she elbows him in the solar plexus and fires off a wide-area fog spell to mask their location; unfortunately, someone on the other side is less than totally incompetent, since several Wind Charms clear the cover almost immediately.

The fact of the matter is that the only sexual satisfaction that Bellatrix craves Rabastan Lestrange, like his brother, is manifestly incapable of providing.

Goyle starts blubbering. Weakling.

While Larrimore and Blythins set up a steady stream of curses to keep the forces in the shop from exiting, Rabastan slashes a Cutting Hex at the crowd near the bank. “Why are they all wearing white? It is a stupid color to wear to battle, _non_?”

“They were at the Weasley wedding,” Farrell says, saving Bella the trouble of hitting her brother-in-law again. He lays down a spread of Blinding Hexes, his particular specialty, and at least one of the dress-robed gang squeals as one of the hexes scores a hit.

Rabastan growls and starts to sing. It is an old battle song of _La Legion de la Pureté_ ; Grindelwald’s French allies are supposed to have sung it to the bitter end of their last stand in the Ardenne, just before Bumblebore slew their Dark Lord: _With impure blood we shall water our fields…_

“ _Espèce de salaud! Espèce de monstre!_ ” A loud, quivering voice calls out from the wedding party.“ _Vous chantez ce… cet abomination, et vous vous appellez un mage?_ ”i

“ _Calmez-vous, Papa,_ ” says a lighter voice.ii

Rabastan stops singing. “ _Monstre? MONSTRE_? _C’est Delacour, oui?_ ” he shouts. No language conveys contempt quite like French. “ _Tu es fier de ton épouse impure, de tes filles animales? Vous avez couplé l’ainée à un des traîtres à notre sang, ce soir? Est-ce qu’elle couve encore, ou est-ce que tu as attendu la coupler à son goujon—”_ _iii_

A flash of blue flares at them; Rabastan snarls “ _Avada Kadavera_!” before ducking beneath the curse.

In the crowd further down Diagon Alley a howl goes up—a single female voice over a tumult of shock: _“Papa! Papa!”_ A brief pause and then, “ _ASSASSIN!”_

What flies back at them is not a spell that Bella has ever seen produced by a human: a ball of intense flame bursts against the mouth of the alley, forcing all of the Death Eaters back momentarily.

“You always had a way with old men, Rabastan,” Bella says with a smirk. “It is a shame that you cannot do so well with women.”

Rabastan shrugs, apparently uncertain whether to take that as a compliment or not.

The angry crowd has begun to swell toward them again, buzzing dangerously. Bella casts one Killing Curse at the two white-robed figures in the middle and then another; Rabastan was right—it is a stupid color to wear to a battle.

The bridge and groom collide, trying to protect each other, and only their comic rebound from the impact keeps both curses from finding their marks.

Wisely the crowd scurries for cover, bride and pretty, pretty groom crawling behind a rain barrel.

She turns back to the troops furthest behind her in the alleyway. “Goyle, Blythins, see if you can get us into number 95, here—their Floo could be a way out.” She hears a huge wet sniffle as Goyle turns around and sets to work. “If that fails, the only other way out of here is to Apparate, and the only place that we can Apparate from is the middle of the road. We need some sort of distraction so that we can—”

There is a grating sound above; two grimy windows on the second floor of number 93 that sound as if they have been nailed shut for several generations wrench open and three wands appear, one from the front window and two from the rear. The front one fires a stunner that catches Farrell in the up-turned mask before any of the others think to return fire, driving the attackers back.

Eight.

Bella swears mightily. She does not swear under normal circumstances, but these circumstances certainly seem to warrant it. Now they are truly Diricawls, and without the Diricawl’s ability to hide in plain sight. There is a drainpipe that meanders down the back wall of the alley. “I need one of you to climb up that pipe and into that rear window; the rest of us will provide covering fire.”

She looks over the seven and sees not one likely prospect—all to heavy or too old or… “Cowards,” she spits. “The Dark Lord will hear of this.”

Rabastan shrugs again. True enough, he is not the rapier-thin boy he once was—Azkaban left him flabby where it annealed Bella, left her with no excess to contain her fury. “I would, _ma belle,_ but don’t you think that you…?”

“Fine!” she snaps and pushes toward the back of the crevice between the two buildings. As she passes Blythins, she sees that the door at which he and Goyle were working is barely scratched. Idiots. Incompetents.

“We were worried that it was cursed like…” Blythins splutters, “like the one that Toke and—”

“That was _this_ building,” Bellatrix snarls, pointing at number 93. “Never mind. You two, and Larrimore, I want you to keep a steady stream of curses going up at those windows. Hit anything that moves, but _don’t hit me_ , do you hear?”

“Yessir,” the three answer. Goyle’s mask is turned almost sideways. Bella twists it roughly back into place—she doesn’t want him firing blindly—and he whimpers quietly.

Unworthy.

“Fire,” Bella orders, and all seven begin sending a stream of curses towards their enemies—the three at the back up towards the second floor, the four in front towards the attackers outside of the alleyway. Testing the drainpipe and finding it reasonably sound, Bella begins to climb.

She remembers very little of her childhood—so little of it seems at all important now—but a memory comes to her unbidden of sneaking out of her parents’ house at the age of fourteen to attend a meeting—it was the first time she ever saw the Dark Lord in person. Evan Rosier, her cousin, Ralph’s uncle, who was as amorous about violence as Rabastan, lured her out, mostly to get her away from the prying eyes of her chastity-obsessed parents. Little had they known—little did Evan know, when he asked her: all that she needed, all that she needs, cannot be provided by a mortal penis. In the magnificent cruelty of…

A red Stunner flies up past her and sparks against the top of the sill, and Bella can hear a squawk from inside. Yes. She waves at her troops below and holds up three fingers, then two, then one…

They shift their fire to the other window as she leans through the window and into the cluttered storeroom, stunning the first witch that she sees there—an Oriental girl. Pretty. Swinging into the room, she raises her shield to deflect the hex that she knows will come from her blind side—and does. She spins and casts a non-verbal Disarming Charm and watches with pleasure as the tall, plump girl on the other side flies backwards and her wand flies into Bellatrix’s free hand.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. As any battle veteran knows, the same spell that pulls the wand pushes the opponent; cast with sufficient force, the affect is most demoralizing.

Flailing in a sea of blue silk, the buxom girl scuttles herself back between a cot and several crates against the far wall.

“Going to crawl away from big, bad Bella, pretty baby?” Bellatrix grins as the girl’s round chin quivers. Her eyes, however are not yet weak enough to satisfy Bella. “You look familiar, girl. I feel as if I must have killed some of your relatives. Are you a Prewett?”

The girl bites down on her lips in defiance; she is trying to stop her chin, but the look is quite adorably infantile. It will be great fun to kill this one. “No, not Gryffindor enough for that clan, and the hair is too dark. I have always liked auburn. Perhaps I shall wear your long plait as a sash into battle….” She gasps with delight. “I know! You are an itsy Bones! The dreadful Amelia’s niece, no doubt. The Dark Lord took great pleasure in killing her. Perhaps I shall bring you to him?”

The girl’s eyes narrow, still annoyingly uncowed, and then flick toward the door.

“Expelliarmus!” spits a voice, and as Bella spins, she sees another face from her past—another that she has known through more than one avatar: the Longbottom get, weak, pathetic…

It is with both shock and a brief moment of respect that Bellatrix realizes that this boy, who at their last meeting was reduced to poking a broken wand into Macnair’s mask, has cast the Disarming Spell with such precision and power that not only are her wand and the girl’s rent from her grasp, but her body is propelled forcibly back out the window through which she entered.

To every action…

In all fairness, the boy looks every bit as shocked as Bellatrix herself is.

As she flails back out into empty air, clawing at the walls in a futile attempt to arrest her fall, she howls.

Over the millennia, chroniclers have noted that most soldiers face their death spouting obscenity or calling to their spouse or to their mother.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange barely remembers her mother. Neither her husband nor any of the other fellow copulatives with whom she rutted over the years hold any sway over her memory, or her heart.

To the last, Bellatrix Black Lestrange makes her only allegiance clear: “ _MY LORD_ _!_ ”

***

i _Espèce de salaud! Espèce de monstre!_ _Vous chantez ce… cet abomination, et vous vous appellez un mage?_ —Scum! Monster! You sing that… that abomination, and you call yourself a wizard?

ii _Calmez-vous, Papa—_ Calm down, Papa.

iii _Monstre? MONSTRE_? _C’est Delacour, oui?_ _Tu es fier de ton épouse impure, de tes filles animales? Vous avez couplé l’ainée à un des traîtres à notre sang, ce soir? Est-ce qu’elle couve encore, ou est-ce que tu as attendu la coupler à son goujon—_ Monster? MONSTER? That’s Delacour, right? You proud of your polluted wife and your animal daughters? You coupled the eldest to one of the blood traitors this evening, didn’t you? Is she carrying already, or did you wait to breed her to her stud until—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter is adapted from Hillary-CW/Cambryn, “Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan” — used with permission.


	26. Night's Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day / Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. — Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was my entry in the hpgw_ficafest Fifth Wave Heaven and Hell Challenge. The prompt was Seven Virtues—Patience.
> 
> Oh, and the opening of the H/G bit was originally a birthday present of sorts to rhetoretician... who was kind enough to fact-check the astronomy. The current morning star suits the fic much better I think! 
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for playing an excellent Miss Bartlett to Neville and Susan's innocence. ;-)

When they reach the landing to the room where Remus has taken to sleeping, Tonks leans against the door jam. “Cor, what a night.”

“We didn’t do too badly,” Remus answers, trying very hard not to become mesmerized by the way the scent of sweat, fear and exhilaration flows from her body. “Relatively low casualties on our side. Just a few major injuries.”

“Two dead.” She sighs deeply. “Poor Jebbins. Merlin, poor Fleur. To lose you dad on the night…”

“Yes. That was tragic.” Shuddering, he crosses his arms. Victims of the Killing Curse send off a scent that is so repulsive—he doesn’t know how any of the rest of them can stand it. “What Lestrange was saying—it really was quite foul.”

“Don’t speak Frog, do I?” she says with a sad smirk. “But I still got that. Can’t believe he was one of the ones got away.”

“Well, only four escaped—again, I think we did well. The rest in custody or—”

“Or dead, like my late lamented aunt.” Tonks does not look at all sorry about Bellatrix Lestrange’s death.

A sudden thought strikes Remus. “Does your mother know?”

“Owled her while we were waiting for the paperwork on the prisoners to clear.” Tonks gives a very Tonks-y smirk. “She wrote back, _What a shame_.”

They share a sad laugh. “Still,” he says, “it’s better that she heard from you.”

“I guess,” Tonks answers with a shrug. “The DA kids were brilliant, don’t you think?”

Remus purses his lips before answering. “Yes,” he says, “but I still wish they hadn’t been there. It wasn’t safe.”

“Nowhere’s _safe_ , Remus,” she says, dark eyes suddenly very intense. “They’ve been training to help, and help they did. It’s because of them that we captured as many as we did.”

Sighing, he says, “Perhaps. I still can’t help wishing they couldn’t still be just, you know, children.”

“You and Molly both,” Tonks laughs. “Neville, though!”

“Neville.” He nods.

She chews on her lip. “Wonder how he’s doing. His first.”

“He mostly seemed fairly stunned.” That no-longer-quite-so-round face slack as the Aurors questioned everyone afterwards. Searching the crowd constantly for—

“Can’t blame him,” sighs Tonks. “She was a right nasty piece of work, our Bella.”

“True.” The Beautiful Black Bitch, Sirius always called her. Though with him, that might have been a compliment—one never knew. “Well,” Remus says at last, “it has been a long night—”

“Remus,” Tonks murmurs, suddenly pressing up against him so that he realizes that the smell of excitement that he sensed was not only the adrenaline rush from the battle, “if you think you’re going into that bed alone, you’ve got another thing coming.” She pulls him through the door, and within moments all sense of fatigue or sorrow are swept from his bed, forgotten on the floor to worry about in the morning with his third-hand dress robes.

  
  


***

  
  


“I…” Neville keeps staring at his hands, as if they have somehow grown extra fingers. “I _killed_ her.”

“You saved my life,” Susan says, not for the first time.

He looks up into her eyes—rich, solemn, warm—and for a moment the cold mist that he’s felt wrapped in all night melts away. She touches his face and smiles and suddenly…

Suddenly, they are kissing. In her house. In her room. On her bed. Long after midnight. Lips and tongues, skin and satin, swelling against one another and _OOooooo…_

Neville has spent the last months trying very hard not to think about being in situations like this with Susan—trying and usually failing. He feels like a fraud, like she’s been tricked into thinking he’s a _nice_ boy, but he’s not thinking very nice thoughts just now, no, not at all.

“Neville?” Her hair has come loose from its plait and sprays across the pale blue pillow—her bed matches his robes. Her skin looks like Gran’s damask roses—so white at the chin, so pink at the lips and cheeks. “Neville. What I said before. It was true then. I like you. I like you so much.”

“Like you too.” It is a struggle to speak—all Neville wants to do is… What? He can’t even _think_ what it is that he wants to do, but whatever it is, he’s sure Susan would be horrified to know that he feels this way.

Susan bites her lip. “You look… Did I say something?”

“No!” Now he finds himself touching _her_ cheek, trying to say something with his fingers that he doesn’t know how to say in words without sounding stupid. “No, I just… This is… I’m just a little over my head, here, you know.”

She nods seriously. “Me too.”

“Really?”

She nods again and her mouth pouts so cutely that he can’t keep himself from kissing her once more. Or twice. It really is that nice. Every time.

A few minutes later he backs up. It’s important to tell her now, so she won’t be hurt. “Susan,” he says, “I… I did kiss Ginny Weasley once. Under the mistletoe. Fourth year.”

“Oh.” She blinks at him. “Well, Justin and I kissed a couple of times at the beginning of last year. Before he and Hannah started going together.” Frowning she adds, “And Zach tried to put his tongue in my mouth once after the Halloween Feast this past year. But I made him stop.”

“Smith?” She nods, and the same fury that filled him when he saw that awful woman standing over Susan begins to burn in his gut again. “That… How did you stop him?”

“Jelly-legs Jinx. It was actually very funny.” She says this so seriously that in spite of his anger, in spite of the feel of her body against his, he begins to giggle; at first her eyes fly wide, and then she too begins to laugh.

They roll across the bed together, laughing manically, her hair flying around them, and soon, of course, they are kissing again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Susan says finally. “Me kissing those other boys. It wasn’t anything like this. Like what I feel now.”

“No. Me either.”

“I like you, Neville.”

“Me too,” he answers. “I mean, I like you. _Like_ - _you_ like you, you know?”

She nods. “I’m… I’m glad.” She bites her lip again as she looks deeply into his eyes. “I trust you, Neville. I… You… don’t want to do anything more than kiss… do you?”

“ _No!_ ” he gasps. Oh, Merlin, now she’s planted a whole new crop of images in his fertile brain. In spite of himself, his hand creeps up a half an inch from where it has been resting on her ribs, not quite reaching the place where her chest swells outward—not quite, but almost. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t, you know, _like_ to. With you. Because…”

“Good,” she says, nodding again. “I mean, maybe… But I don’t think…”

“Not yet.” Not because he was the first one into the room where Mrs. Lestrange was threatening her. Not because she was _grateful_ … But Merlin, her skin, and the warmth of her, breath like orchids…

“No, definitely. Not yet.” They lie there, nose to nose, belly to belly, and Neville’s body is doing its best to crack that resolve, to turn him into Zacharias Smith. Then she smiles in a way that makes Neville’s head light. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t kiss some more.”

Neither of them speaks again for quite a long while.

  
  


***

  
  


Teddy is sitting right where he was when Eri left, in the big kitchen chair that their mother used to stay up in when Daddy was out. “It’s two in the morning,” he snaps.

“I had to wait until everyone got back; I couldn’t leave Gabrielle alone.” She kicks off the shoes—they were Mother’s too—and rubs her feet. Dancing is fun, but very hard work. “Especially not after her father died.”

Teddy’s scowl falls. “Her… father.”

“Yes,” Eri says. “There was an attack on Diagon Alley, and of course Luna had to help, and so I stayed with Gabrielle. Harry Potter danced with Gabrielle, it made her very happy, even though she knows that it isn’t meant to be.”

Teddy is scowling again. He always scowls.

“Then everyone got back, and Monsieur Delacour was killed, so I had to stay a while longer. And Madam Lestrange got tossed out a window by Neville Longbottom and died.”

“Oh,” says Teddy; he seems to be having trouble following her. He must be tired. “Good riddance.”

“Yes, Luna thought so too. I never met her. But Luna said that she was rather unpleasant.”

For some reason, this makes Teddy laugh.

Yawning, Eri shakes her hair out of the French braid that he helped her to put it in all those hours ago. “Come along, Teddy. I’m very tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Yes,” he answers, more agreeable than usual. “But you’re all right?”

“Yes, Teddy,” Eri answers, kissing him on the cheek, “I’m fine.” She reaches her room. No bath tonight. It’s too late. “Good night, Teddy. I’m glad we joined the DA. I wouldn’t want you to have been one of the Death Eaters tonight.”

Her brother shakes his head grimly as he opens the door across from hers. “No. Good night, Eri.”

  
  


***

  
  


Luna comes home to find a glass of milk and a note from her father: _There’s a story brewing in Diagon Alley—I need do some digging with some of my contacts at the Ministry to see whether Scrimgeour’s vampire claque were involved. Have some milk. I’ll see you in the morning._

She wonders how he will feel when he realizes that she was part of the story. He will most likely interview her. Perhaps she will be able to interview Ginny again. And Harry. Yes.

It occurs to Luna that watching them not looking at each other was actually more sexually exciting than seeing them after they had been disturbed in the Burrow, Ginny with her hair undone, Harry with his shirt open, both of them giving off that distinctive scent that Luna has begun to identify with them lately. Is wanting somehow more exciting than actually having? Perhaps not for the people who are actually doing the wanting and having.

When Ginny ran first into the front room of the store, and the twins and Harry and Falnak pushed in front of Luna, Luna felt quite impatient. No, more than impatient: desperate. If she knew how to Apparate, she would have put herself at Ginny’s side. Between Ginny and danger.

Sipping at the milk, Luna is aware that this was completely illogical on her part. Most unlike her. **Observations:**

No. She is too tired for deductions tonight.

As she wishes her mother’s photograph good night, she hopes that her father is safe. This too she realizes is illogical: the battle is over, and besides, he either is safe or he isn’t. Wishing won’t change anything.

Poor Gabrielle. Poor Fleur.

  
  


***

  
  


Bill looks down at Fleur—at his _wife—_ and does not know what to say. She has been weeping since they left Diagon Alley—weeping at the Ministry, weeping when they got back to the Burrow, weeping since he carried her here to the tent was supposed to be their wedding-night sanctuary.

They are wrapped together, here on the floor, still in their tar-smirched robes.

Fleur is weeping.

There is nothing to say.

Their marriage has been consummated in blood.

Mum has always said that any marriage is made not in the _for better_ , but in the _for worse_. If you can survive the hard times together, the good times will always be there.

Tomorrow will be better.

  
  


***

  
  


Hermione sits at the foot of the bed and watches Ron snore.

She would not return to Ginny’s room even if Harry were not there.

Ron can sleep, and Hermione is glad of it; she is too terrified to close her eyes.

The battle was hard enough—getting separated from Ron, pushed to opposite sides of Diagon Alley—and then getting hit by that Blinding Hex like a complete idiot. One of the Delacours pulled her over behind the steps of Gringotts and tried to break the curse—it is a counter-curse that Hermione has known since fifth year, but she couldn’t think of anything but the fact that Ron was alone, trading hexes with the trapped Death Eaters, and so there she lay, blind, listening outraged at the awful things that Lestrange called Fleur and her family, listening in horror when Lestrange killed Mr. Delacour. Fleur’s rage. The battle after. Lying there, terrified that Ron would be hurt—or Harry, or Ginny, or Neville, over in the shop.

Then the fighting stopped and Ron’s wonderful voice asked if she was all right, and he lifted the curse, and Hermione felt so foolish and so grateful to see his face, to see that he wasn’t hurt, that she kissed him, right there in the street in front of everyone, and he kissed her back.

When they all finally returned to the house, the couples separated without speaking—Harry and Ginny to the room below to complete what the alarm had evidently interrupted, and Ron and Hermione to this one. Flushed with adrenaline and grateful to be here, grateful that he was here, that they were both all right, she threw herself at him the minute they cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door.

Hermione knew very clearly what was going to happen, what she was finally ready to admit that she wanted to happen. She wanted to give herself to Ron. To take him into her. To possess and be possessed. Then she began to move her hand to the front of his trousers, to feel, to let him know… But he grabbed her wrist and groaned, “Merlin, Hermione. No.”

She pulled her hand back, and suddenly she felt very foolish. Boys weren’t supposed to be the ones to stop things. She was stupid. She was ugly…

He kissed her again and moaned, “Can’t lose you, Hermione.” He pulled her close to him and held her tight—so tight—and they rocked there on his bright orange bed, holding each other close until he at last fell asleep.

Hermione, however, cannot sleep. Escapades like tonight’s often ruin her sleep, unsurprisingly. But as night begins to pass toward morning she is not replaying the tactical mistakes that she made, looking for better choices; she knows what she did wrong well enough. The questions whirling through her brain all have to do with what has happened to her and Ron, and with what will happen. He cares for her, doesn’t he? Does he? Does he want her? Does he not want her?

She wants him. She wants him very, very badly. And not just in a Platonic or romantic way. She wants all of him. She wants to give him all of herself. From that truth she can no longer hide—her need has battered up against her pride now so ferociously and for so long that her façade is shattered.

Pulling her knees to her chest she stares at him, at his long nose and the lips that have been her torment in so many ways over the past few years. “God, I hate you, Ron.”

***

  
  


Ginny watches out her window as Saturn grows bright in the eastern sky, and she groans.

Mistaking the sound, Harry nuzzles muzzily up behind her, his nose finding the back of her ear through her tangled skein of hair. “D’I fall ‘sleep’n’you?”

“No, love,” Ginny whispers, willing the earth to stop spinning, willing her clock to stop its infuriating, incessant _clip-clop_ towards dawn.

It has been so easy, these past few weeks, to forget that this day has been coming, to forget that he and Hermione and Ron are leaving. They’ve only just _come_ , and though she knows it’s selfish of her to want them to stay longer—though she knows that the war needs to end, that tens of thousands of people, hundreds of thousands, are living in fear and in real danger, and that none of them can afford to stand idle, least of all Harry—though she knows all of this, it is so tempting to draw the curtains and turn back the clock, to hide the calendar, to pretend that it is yesterday.

Though she’s not sure whether any of them could survive another day like yesterday.

Poor Phlegm.

And it was such a _lovely_ wedding. Ron twirling a flushed Hermione around the floor. Feeling Harry’s gaze undressing her as she walked down the aisle in her gold frou-frou… Hermione kissing Ron in the middle of Diagon Alley after the battle.

In a few hours they will be gone, and it’ll be her turn to play the patient one, the one left behind. Ginny hates that job. She always has—she has never been overly blessed with patience—and the idea of staying at home without them, of going to school without Ron and Hermione, without Harry, seems unbearable. Waiting…

“Ginny?” His arms pull her close from behind, so that their naked bodies spoon together again. “Can I ask you something?”

She stiffens; here it comes. “Sure, Harry. Sure.” She tries not to start yelling or crying as she clutches his hand between her breasts. “I’ll _wait_ for you. I’ll be _careful._ I’ll go to back to school in November, and I’ll tell everyone I have no idea where you are or what you’re up to, and I won’t try to owl you or Floo-call every other day, and once I start taking Apparition lessons, I won’t start trying to Apparate to headquarters, trying to see how you are.” She turned in his grasp so that they were nose to nose. “But listen to me, Harry: there’s something you have to do for _me_ if I’m going to act so not like me, do you hear?”

Harry’s eyes, which always looked bigger when he wasn’t wearing his glasses, looked enormous. “What, love?”

“You’re going to bloody _live_ , okay?” She finds that the emotion racing through her now is not the fear or sorrow that kept her up after their last frenzied lovemaking session—fury burns at her throat like acid. “You’re going to be _careful_ and not do anything stupid—or _noble_ for that matter—and your going to get rid of the filthy old bugger and you are going to _come back to me_ , do you hear me, Harry?”

“Yes. I hear.” He kisses her on the forehead and then on the lips, and _now_ she starts to cry. Blast. He kisses her again and pulls her tight, so that her face is buried under his chin; she is in a cocoon of Harry. “I… I hear you. And I’ll do my best. I swear. I will. But…”

She sobs, and even his shoulders begin to quake. “But you can’t bloody _promise_.”

“No.”

Late last night, when he gave her Fred and George’s map—his dad’s map really—she knew what this was going to look like. Truly, she’s always known: Harry’s life isn’t his. He belongs to everyone but himself.

For now.

“ _Try_ ,” she hisses into his neck.

“I will. That I _can_ promise.” They hold each other fiercely—closer almost than sex, they are wrapped in each other. After some time— _clip-clop_ —she feels him start to chuckle.

“What?” she asks.

“Well,” he says, “that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

Backing out of her nest at his throat, she peers up at him; he looks amused and a bit embarrassed. “What?” she asks.

“I mean,” he says, “I do. For me, selfish, I do need to know that you’re going to be okay. But Ginny? Um…”

“What in Merlin’s name, Harry…?”

“Well, what I was going to ask…” He starts to blush in a shade of pink that would do a Weasley proud. “Do you think that I’ve got… You know. A lot of hair. On…”

Ginny has absolutely _no_ idea where this is going or why he happened to think of it. “On… on _what,_ Harry?”

“On, um… You know. My backside.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He is turning darker and darker red. “See, Fred and George… All summer… They keep saying, ‘Oi, Potter, get your hairy arse over here!’ And then they laugh like crazy. And I just thought…”

“Harry.”

“Uh, yeah?”

“It’s a stupid joke about your name. ‘Get your _harry_ arse…’”

The look on his face as comprehension dawns is so priceless that she can’t help but smile. “I think your backside is just perfect, Harry.”

He kisses her again, this time more passionately. “I like yours too,” he murmurs, rolling her onto her back.

She welcomes him into her, and for a brief span time does stop. And when they are done, Ginny does begin to drift off to sleep. Suddenly she thinks of other things that she wanted to tell Harry, about her, and about him. About the diary and Luna’s mother…

But sleep is pulling her and her limbs are as thick and insubstantial as flowing honey. They will leave in the morning. She will be patient. It will be all right.

  
  


***

  
  


Just fifty miles away, in the bowels of Malfoy Mansion, Lord Voldemort, Dark Lord and immortal, stares down at the cowering remnant of his raiding party in rage. “Fools,” he shouts. “Imbeciles!”

The four quake at his feet.

Voldemort is tired. Though his plans are progressing, few of them are going as planned. The Order and Potter’s brats have been far more annoying than they have had any right to be.

The Dementors—only half of the original number—have fled back to Wiltshire and are unwilling to leave the grounds.

The flow of recruits has been slowing; the young ones are patently incompetent, and since the debacle of Potter’s birthday have been less than unquestioning in their discipline.

The gold continues to flow—there is still plenty left in the Malfoys’ coffers, but Parkinson has been bleating about difficulties in meeting his quota. Without gold…

And Bellatrix is dead. He finds that he feels—not sad, hardly that—but annoyed in a particularly irksome way at her loss. He does not remember feeling anything like this before his resurrection.

Really, there is only one answer just now. “ _CRUCIO!_ ”

On the floor before him, four figures twitch and scream.

It is not much relief. But it is something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Reallycorking, detail from “Kisses Are a Better Fate” — used with permission.


	27. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes knowing where you are isn't enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, not a crossover, and not even a response to the flamingnargle March drabble challenge... :-(
> 
> But other good things, I hope you will agree.
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for holding my hand as I wandered through the dark...

George looks at his mum, slumped at the stove, and then at the table.

Even after almost two weeks, it’s still funny to see the table so barren; after days and days of meals for tens and dozens, it is set for five: Fred’s eating at the shop, so Mum, Charlie, Bill…. “Um. Bill and Fleur joining us for lunch then?”

His mother heaves a long sigh. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing Fleur yet, George, dear.”

Bill’s wife has barely emerged from their tent—the last remaining in the field by the paddock—since that night, and when she has she has looked pale and as unpretty as George can imagine a Veela looking, even a _part-_ Veela. “Oh. Then Ginny, I suppose.”

Mum shakes her head. “No, she’s over at the Lovegoods with that odd friend of hers.”

George is quite fond of Luna—good for a laugh and a nice bum, though it’s weird to think that about a girl Ginny’s age—but Mum’s clearly not in a mood to be crossed, and so George keeps his opinion to himself. “Can I help?”

“Of course, dear.” Watching his mother run a hand through her hair, George is suddenly struck by how tired she looks; how frail. “If you can get down the serving bowls from the top shelf there…”

It’s something Mum can do in her sleep, but honestly, she might as well be sleeping, and so George Levitates the bowls down.

“No,” his mother says, “your father is supposed to be joining us today; they’ve liver and onions in the canteen today, and he’s never been fond of liver, your dad. Not like you.” She smiles at George over her shoulder.

The fact of the matter is that _Fred_ made a comment about loving liver—five years ago. But Mum always remembers it as George, and so on those rare occasions when he comes home without his twin, he can count on being lovingly force-fed liver and onions, a meal he has always detested. Thank Merlin for Dad.

Bill wanders in, looking more drawn than he has since the beginning of the summer.

“Hey, Bill,” George attempts, and when that gets no appreciable response, he continues, “are we going to need to tear you away from your lovely bride back into Poppy Pomfrey’s loving embrace? You look terrible.”

That at least sparks a grimace in his eldest brother’s scarred face. “Thanks. No, I’m fine. Fleur… Fleur’s still taking it hard. It’s like time stopped the moment that curse hit…” Bill slumps into his seat and looks around the table. “So. Ginny and Fred?”

George shakes his head, but his mother beats him to the explanation. “Ginny is over at the Lovegoods’ with your sister-in-law—she came through just a bit ago, I thought she might have visited with you and her sister before… but obviously not—and Fred had to stay at the shop.”

George snorts. “It’s his turn, and Verity’s ready to pull out her hair—we’ve had so many gawkers since that night….”

They all stand there—or, in Bill’s case, sit—squirming as the elephant enters the room again.

“In any case,” says Mum with her patented Everything’s-Fine-Aren’t-We-Happy? voice on, “your father is joining us. Charlie was out on a, uh, run, but should be back any moment.” She glances at the blasted clock out of habit; of course the hands are all pointed at _Mortal Peril_. No surprise there.

George flicks a look over to Bill and is gratified to see a sad smirk on his brother’s face.

“George,” says Mum, bustling for a change, “here’s the salad—I’ve made that lovely dressing that Mignonette showed me…” The elephant does a turn; takes a dump. “Well, Bill, there’s some black sausage cut up in there for you too—I know this time of month—”

“Merlin, Bill, I never thought we’d hear Mum chatting with _you_ about the time of month!” George cracks before he can even think not to.

Thankfully, all he gets for his trouble is an indignant squawk from Mum and a snort—and a tossed bit of sausage—from Bill.

The room suddenly goes dark as a huge shadow blots out the sun. “Ah!” burbles Mum, “that’ll be Charlie—does he have someone on that ridiculous beast with him? Ah, well, there’s plenty. Now, where on earth is your father?”

  
  


***

  
  


The air in the meeting room seems to be growing thinner and warmer with each passing minute, and the awkwardness of the situation does nothing to help. Arthur is hungry and his head is pounding.

“Auror Shacklebolt,” says the Assistant Privy Undersecretary, “if your partner does not arrive within the next fifteen minutes, we shall have to continue without her.”

Around the table the assembled committee members let out a cacophony of groans and sighs.

“Percy,” says his father, “surely we can continue without Tonks. The princess’s death—”

“The princess’s death, Mr. Weasley,” says the third Weasley son, “affects us in more ways than one, and we need a unified and well-informed report from this committee in order to guide the Minister in his response to this crisis. The Plantagenets are perhaps not one of our pureblood families, but they have a history in magical Britain that goes back nearly a thousand years, and, as the Privy Secretary so aptly reminded us in convening this committee, the Ministry owes them what assistance it can provide.”

Arthur closes his eyes and mouth in an attempt to bite back the angry response that is threatening to burst out. Umbridge wants the assistance that the Ministry provides to the half-blooded royal family to be _nil_ , that much is clear from the composition of the committee that she created in response to the crisis rocking Muggle London: every dead-end department head and grubby, Muggle-related officer that she could dump into one room.

Hands fluttering as always over his perpetually rumpled robes, Perkins tries to make Percy hear reason. “Per… Mr. Weasley, perhaps if we took a short break…”

Percy scowls at his father as if this were all somehow _his_ fault. “Well,” he snaps at last, “a short recess could do no harm.” He bangs the gavel and sweeps out of the meeting room, allowing a gust of breathable air to fill his place.

As they shuffle shoulder-to-shoulder with the others—several giving Arthur infuriatingly sympathetic pats on the back—Arthur maneuvers himself next to the big Auror. “Kingsley,” he whispers, “where in Merlin’s name is Tonks?”

  
  


***

  
  


Remus wakes to the not-too-distant smell of blood, and it makes his hackles rise…

If he still had hackles it would, in any case. The hair on his arms and neck, yes.

He pushes out from the safe room that he and Nymphadora rigged in Buckbeak’s old room and stumbles down the stairs.

Blood. _Human_ blood…

The combination of blind hunger and nausea pulls him to his knees outside of the room that he has been sharing with Nymph…

Harry. His mind snaps clear. If it is Harry bleeding…

He can hear two voices coming from the kitchen—one low and urgent, the other… Groaning.

Nymphadora.

The smell of blood is getting stronger and he finds himself sprinting down the last staircase to the kitchen.

To find Charlie Weasley leaning over a moaning Tonks.

The smell of blood and…

Remus has always laughed at the expression _seeing red_. He does not see red when rage hits him. He sees black.

When he comes to himself, Charlie is holding him in one massive left hand by the throat, well off of the floor. “STOP, LUPIN, BACK OFF.”

The rage is draining along with his strength. “If you touched her…” he hisses breathlessly.

Charlie drops him to the ground. “She’s _fine_ , you bloody lunatic.” He goes back over to the table where Tonks is curled up on her side, facing away…

Facing away from Remus.

The smell of blood. Human blood. And also…

“Bitten,” Remus croaks, rubbing his throat. “Was she…?” ( _Did I…?_ )

“No,” Tonks sobs, and it is the most blessed sound that he has ever heard.

With the Wolfsbane Potion—even the less-efficacious brand brewed up by Doge—he can usually remain more or less himself throughout his nights as a wolf, but that is his second worst nightmare: that he will harm this woman—anyone, but this woman in particular—and then not remember.

His worst nightmare is that he will tear her throat out with his teeth, and remember every moment.

Charlie seems to be wiping Tonks’s face. He mutters as he nurses her, “No, it was Hestia. She got bit…”

Tonks pushes him back and sits up. “Was supposed to be a bloody surveillance job. Was supposed to be just keeping an eye on your friend Pettigrew, down by the shore above Dover where he’s been sneaking about. Three of us, me, Jones and that bloody prat Toke were just about to wind it up when suddenly _bang_ , the air is full of Stunners and worse. A dozen Death Eaters, a bloody _giant_ and three or four of Greyback’s pack—this must have been a good hour before dawn, so we were royally screwed.”

She pauses and starts to heave; Charlie holds up a bucket for her to vomit into. Charlie starts to rub her back; his face is bright with sweat and besmirched with black.

“Toke scarpered right off—first hex and he Apparated, though where to Merlin knows, ‘cause he clearly never called in help.”

Charlie grumbles, “Can’t trust a Toke.”

Tonks laughs mirthlessly. “Me and Hestia, we were lucky in that the spot where we’d holed up was good, high ground, with some rocks around it—no way to sneak up. Moody’d’ve been proud.” She pushes the bucket away with a grim smile.

Remus is collapsed on the floor. Beneath the table—on the other side—he can see another figure lying on its back: Hestia Jones, her black hair streaked with her own blood, her round cheeks pale. There is a gash at her throat that looks to have been hastily healed; it is the source of the blood, and of the sickly smell of werewolf saliva that now almost drowns out Remus’s other senses.

“Put up anti-Apparition wards first thing, just like we’ve been training the DA tots. Didn’t want one of those bastards dropping in. Couple tried anyway, got Splinched for their trouble.” The grin broadens, then fades. “After that it got nasty. Death Eaters taking pot shots up the hill, just keeping us stuck. Us returning fire as fast as we can, back to back. After about ten minutes or so, one of ‘em manages to convince the giant to wander on up and stomp on us. Big old she-giant makes our Grawp look like a bloody midget, but thank Merlin for Grawp, ‘cause he and Hagrid taught us, you know…”

“Small things,” Remus manages to mutter, trying to smile.

“Yeah.” Tonks looks down at him, starts to get up and then collapses back to sitting on the table, Charlie’s huge hands steadying her. “Yeah. Little things. So…” She pulls at her robes. “Fired off a few of Fred and George’s Boomerang Mini-Whizzes, kept ‘em aimed low and fired ‘em just so—and _snap_! Big Bertha has fireworks going off on her backside. It was hysterical—she starts swatting at ‘em like mosquitoes, then turns and gets one up the nose.” Tonks snorts and Charlie joins her. “Bloody marvelous. She stumbles down the hill, crushing trees, sending Death Eaters scrambling—I caught one with a Stunner. Hope she stepped on him.”

Charlie and Remus share a glance. Even at her most impassioned, Tonks can hardly be called bloodthirsty.

She rubs a hand vigorously through her hair; some blood comes off from the pink onto her fingers. “So, it’s about half an hour before dawn, and at this point, me and Hestia, we’re just trying to stay alive till dawn, right? Figure, the Dark Bunghole’s troops lose the werewolves and between that and the casualties we’ve already inflicted—well, us and the giant—they’re down to three-to-one, four-to-one, and our little hideout’s pretty tough, so maybe they’ll just go away and leave us alone.”

She stops, closes her eyes and shudders, then leans back and looks over the far side of the table. “Hestia… I mean, she’s not an Auror or anything, is she, just a nice witch who tells really bad Muggle jokes but she was bloody…”

Whatever she was, Hestia Jones is lying on the floor, still—breathing but unconscious.

Tonks shudders again. “Peter bloody Pettigrew shows up. I fired off a spread of Stunners; one of them catches him, or rather he catches _it_ , right in that bloody shiny hand, like it was a bloody Quaffle, and tosses it back at me. Nearly took my head off. And I finally look up again, the werewolves are nearly on us, howling like bloody…”

The look in her eyes—rage, fear, disgust—hurts Remus far more than anything else has managed in quite a long time.

She turns away, and when Charlie tries to mop at her head again she bats his hand away. “The two on my side I managed to keep busy—took one down with that flamethrower hex you two were showing the DA kids back… And then fired off enough Full-Body Binds that the second one was gone. Turned around and…” She’s sobbing again. “Bloody… _thing_ had Hestia’s throat in its teeth, just toying with her, more like a bloody cat than a wolf; I took my wand, shoved it in the bastard’s ear and…”

She starts sobbing truly now, knees curled up to her forehead, long wheezing bouts of gasping moans. Charlie starts to put his arm around her; Remus, who can barely stand, pushes him out of the way and she collapses in his armpit.

Remus wraps his arms around Tonks and she weeps.

After a while, the smell of tears begins to wash the spell of blood from his weak mind. He looks up; Charlie Weasley is standing at the end of the table, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes sunken and thoughtful for someone whose expression is usually an open book.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says at one point.

Charlie shrugs. “I was just finishing my patrol; this is about eight in the morning, way too late for me to be out, but its been overcast, so hey. I look down at one point about ten miles up the coast from Dover and I see wandfire—even from two thousand feet, there’s no mistaking a Stunner. I swoop down, and of course they all scatter. Tonks has been there for three bloody hours on her own, keeping this one from bleeding to death”—he jerks his head at Hestia—“and keeping You Know Who’s crazies at bay.”

Remus squeezes Tonks hard. She doesn’t seem to notice, but keens on.

“Got down—there’s two of theirs dead and another three out cold and… And Tonks covered in blood—the werewolf’s and Hestia’s—and firing hexes every which way. She fired a dozen at Norbert and me before I got her to recognize me. And then I get there, and this one…” He flicks his head again at Hestia Jones. “She’s moaning something awful; when I tried to heal her, she tries to grab my wand—”

“Kept begging me to give her the coo-de-grass, slice her throat,” Tonks says, and it’s quiet now, all the sobbing gone. “Didn’t want to be a werewolf, she kept screaming.”

Charlie is looking at Remus, and for a change his expression is empathetic. “She was just scared.”

“As well she should be,” Remus sighs.

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees with a shrug. “Anyway, stunned her, and pulled the two of them on Norbert’s back. Flew us all the way back to the Burrow, ‘cause where the hell else am I going to land a dragon at mid-day? Mum pushed us through the Floo, told us to wait here for Poppy. And here we are.”

“Poor Hestia,” Remus says, and means it. Her life as she knew it—cheering on her sister, telling jokes about Muggles and lightbulbs, being the bubbly, cheerful one at all of the Order’s less than cheerful meetings—it’s all gone and she knew it the moment the fangs broke her skin. Remus looks back up at Charlie, who is staring into the hearth. Hopefully Molly will have tracked Poppy down, and he’ll have to ask Elphias to start brewing a double dose of Wolfsbane. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“Glad I was there,” Charlie answers awkwardly.

“Me too,” say both Remus and Tonks, and they all laugh just a little.

“Merlin,” says Tonks after a moment. “Here I felt like I’d never laugh again. Blimey, where are the twins when you need them?”

  
  


***

  
  


“What the _bloody_ hell were you _thinking_?” Fred finds himself howling at a white-faced Verity Rosegarden.

“She was from the Department of—” the girl splutters—woman, she’s actually a few months older than Fred and George, though she has never pointed this out.

“She’s a bloody _TOKE_ ,” Fred shouts as the Floo flashes green; George steps through into the back room of number 93. “Her bloody cousin was bloody stunned right outside the front door just two weeks ago, wearing a bloody black robe and a bloody mask!”

“What’s the matter, brother mine?” George asks, and really, Fred knows better, he knows he’s burning hot and George isn’t and he knows that George is rather fond of Verity—George likes bottoms, always has, and Verity’s is without a doubt a thing of beauty.

Still, Fred is furious, and so he doesn’t think. “She was about to hand the bloody International Cooperation order over to Wilhelmina bloody Toke!”

“But,” George asks with a frown, “she’s the deputy director there, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, sure, but come on—that family—”

“Barnabus is in the Order, Fred.”

“George, she was going to sell them to Voldemort’s lot, come on!” Fred hasn’t lost his temper like this since that Quidditch match where the ferret—

“I was just trying to do my _job_ ,” Verity snivels.

“Not very bloody well!” laughs Fred.

“Fred,” George says warningly.

“Fine!” Verity sniffs. “Get someone better to do it, then!” She wheels around and starts pulling off her magenta uniform robes. As she reaches the Floo, she flounces around. “I _quit_.” And with a flash of green, she is gone.

“Oh, well bloody done, brother of mine,” George snaps.

Fred is still staring at the Floo. He was just trying to—

George pulls him around and starts shouting in his face. “And this from the man who sent a case of bloody Peruvian Darkness Powder to Draco bloody Malfoy last year! Ginny and Ron and Bill and Harry nearly got killed—the headmaster _was—_ ”

“How was I supposed to bloody know, come on!” The anger that has been simmering all morning is catching flame.

“He had it delivered to _Wyrm Illfaith,_ I mean, how tough was that, you think there could have been a kid named bloody _Wyrm_ at Hogwarts and we wouldn’t have teased the bollocks off of him?”

He and George are literally nose to nose, both red-faced, each gesticulating wildly. Fred knows he is very close to popping his twin in the conk.

They stand there on the knife’s edge.

“I’ll Floo her,” Fred says, still furious. “I’ll apologize.”

“Fred, she won’t come back today, I promise you that.” George’s jaw is set.

It is at this point that Fred remembers that George was taking Verity to Salome’s tonight. “Yeah. Sorry.”

George turns away, throwing up both hands. “Yeah, thanks. So who the hell are we going to get to help us mind the shop?”

Looking back through the curtains into the front room, he can see that the showroom is still packed. A couple of kids are goggling through the curtain, wide-eyed. “Oh, hell.”

“Yeah,” George says, turning grimly back towards Fred with a very un-Georgelike expression of seriousness leaching the life out of him.

Fred quails at the sight of his twin turning into Percy at the thought of being stuck on the sales floor all day instead of doing the research they’ve promised Professor McGonagall they’ll complete by the end of September. Lee’s out. Angelina’s at Harpies try-outs. Katie and Alicia are visiting Alicia’s cousins in Grenada. “Er… Where’s Ginny?”

  
  


***

  
  


Gabrielle looks across the table at Ginny Weasley, who is talking very intently with their highly odd hostess. Really, she is not so pretty—thin nose and lips and all of those freckles.

And yet Harry Potter seems to find them irresistible. Gabrielle sighs.

“ _Something is bothering you,_ ” Eri says in French, her black, irisless eyes boring into Gabrielle.

“ _My father died_ ,” Gabrielle says, not only because the statement is true, but because she has found that people generally don’t have an answer for it.

“ _Of course he did,_ ” Eri answers without any heat _,_ “ _I was there when you found out_.”

Very few people are like Eri Nott. Gabrielle looks down into her tea. “ _That really is hard_ ,” Gabrielle finds herself saying. “ _Maman is a mess, and Fleur is married now, and I feel as if I’m all alone in the world._ ”

“ _You’re not_ ,” Eri says as if pointing out the answer to a simple arithmetic problem. “ _I lost my mother. Luna did too, when she was nine. It is quite thoroughly awful, and you feel as if a chunk was taken out of you, but you go on living. It’s not terribly nice, but certainly it’s what you do._ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gabrielle finds herself agreeing.

She is watching Luna, who is gazing into Ginny’s eyes as she has seen her sister gaze into Bilius’s. It doesn’t seem fair. “ _I think our hostess is in love with her friend._ ”

“ _She doesn’t believe in love,_ ” Eri states.

“ _Truly?_ ”

“ _Truly._ ”

“ _Well, she seems to believe in something_ ,” Gabrielle says, coming closer to a giggle than she has in weeks.

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Eri concedes after a moment. Wrinkling her brow in thought, she adds, “ _I think she may be in love with Harry as well, then._ ”

Gabrielle sighs. _“How tedious of her_.” She looks at her friend. “ _Are you in love with Harry?_ ”

Eri looks at her for a long time before answering. “ _No_.”

“ _Oh. Good. Then that would be all four of us, and that would be just silly._ ” Gabrielle reaches across the table and grabs one of the _madelaines_ that her mother baked this morning—she loves England, but their baking leaves much to be desired.

Eri cocks her head. _“You are only eleven, Gabrielle_.”

She feels her ire begin to rise: that has been a constant refrain for the past few months, and it is getting quite boring. “ _I am a Veela. And I am French. I have loved him since I was eight years old. He saved my life and I love him. My father died. And_ you _are only twelve._ ”

Eri smiles. “ _All of that is true. Though I am thirteen. Yet that does not change the fact that at our age even a part-Veela and a Frenchwoman such as yourself is only beginning to have the capacity to love in the more adult sense. I think even our friend with the red hair would tell you that what she felt for Harry at twelve_ _years of age is different than what she feels for him now._ ”

As always, Eri’s even tone and calm expression take any pleasure out snapping at her. It is like fighting with _grand-mère_ , who takes any rants with a smile, a laugh and an offer of a biscuit. “ _I suppose_.” Eri looks across the table. Luna is holding Ginny’s hand and speaking very intently about her mother, and about a trophy of some sort, which seems odd given that she seems a terribly non-competitive person.

Gabrielle’s mother, her always-perfect hair awry. Her skin pale and blotchy. Crying in _grand-mère_ ’s lap. “ _I am frightened for my mother_ ,” she admits at last. “ _Veelas mate for life_.”

“ _I know,_ ” Eri sighs, and her usually smooth brow twists in a manner that makes Gabrielle feel a bit peculiar. “ _But you and she are only part-Veela, yes_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gabrielle says with a slow nod. “ _So perhaps…_ _When your mother died, was your father very sad?_ ”

“My father is a Death Eater,” Eri murmurs in English, stopping all other conversation. “But Teddy and I were very, very sad for quite a long time.”

“Oh,” Gabrielle answers, suddenly aware that Ginny is staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“How is your mother doing?” the redheaded _putain_ says, thin lips stretching into the kind of concerned smile that Gabrielle has seen too much in the last two weeks.

“She eez… very sad, _oui_?”

“Yeah,” says Ginny with a solemn smirk, not taking her eyes off of Gabrielle, “that makes sense.”

“Full-blooded Veelas die when their mates die,” Luna muses, “but I am fairly certain that that is not true of hybrids.”

( _Grand-mère._ And _Grand-père is getting so old…_ ) “ _Non_. _J’espère que non._ ”

Eri takes Gabrielle’s hand and smiles that smile of hers that seems to communicate such certainty that everything will work out in the long run.

“So,” Gabrielle says before anyone else can talk about death or mothers, focusing on the one thing that they haven’t talked about but are all thinking about, “where eez ‘Arry?”

***

Zacharias crosses his legs and peers at his tea guests. Probably the last two people he would have expected to knock upon his parents’ door. Certainly not the first two that he would have wished to do so. “Yes,” he says, “my grandfather inherited this house from his aunt. We’ve lived here ever since.”

“Hepzibah Smith,” says Potter—he keeps repeating her name like a dog a worrying a bone.

“Yes, as I’ve said. Several times.” Zacharias sips at his Pu-ehr and waits for some sort of explanation.

“Do you know,” Granger asks, her eyes on Potter but the question clearly intended for Zacharias, “the circumstances of her death?”

“Well, of course,” Curiouser and curiouser. “It was quite a scandal at the time—killed by her own house elf. We’ve refused to keep one ever since.”

“It wasn’t Hokey’s fault,” Potter murmurs.

“Of _course_ it…” Zacharias stops and stares at Potter, who is peering into his untouched tea. “How on earth did you know her name?”

“Because Dumbledore interviewed her before she died. And she… told him that there had been a visitor to her mistress’s house, just before the murder.” Potter’s eyes flash up. “Tom Riddle.”

“Tom?” It sounds familiar, something he’s read.

“Voldemort,” says Granger, her eyes still on the Boy Who Lived.

Zacharias cannot stifle a shiver at the name. “Are… are you serious?”

“Yes,” Granger says, finally looking directly across the table. “Did you read the article in _The Quibbler_?”

That fishrap? “Well, yes, I did, but… Are you telling me that that rubbish was true?”

“Oh, yes,” says Potter who looks as if he’s swallowed a particularly bitter cup of _o-cha_. “Dumbledore knew him as a student, you see. And so did McGonagall and Slughorn—and quite a few others.”

That is a surprise; that a Gryffindor like Potter would back his odd friendship with Loony is one thing, but referring to such a variety of authorities… “I’m surprised.”

Potter grimaces—it’s something like a smile. “Yeah. You’d probably be even more surprised to know that she sat here, in this very room, plying Tom Riddle with tea and bragging about these two _objects_ that had come into her possession.”

“Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup,” stammers Zacharias. This isn’t a widely known part of the story—the family worked very hard to keep the loss of the precious heirlooms out of the press and out of the official reports. “How did you know…?”

“I told you,” Potter says, looking back down into his tea. “Dumbledore found out from Hokey.”

“But the house elf confessed!”

Granger interjects, her imperious voice on: “Hokey was _compelled_ to take all responsibility, both out of the obligation placed on her by her slave-bond to your great-aunt, and by the memory charms that Voldemort had cast on her!”

Zacharias shakes his head—this is too much. “Memory charms are easy to spot—”

“If you’re looking for them. Which the Aurors weren’t,” growls Granger. “Of _course_ , she’s only a _house elf_ , of _course_ she’s responsible. And of course she _felt_ responsible—she had allowed her mistress’s death!” Potter reaches over and touches Granger’s shoulder, but the swot is just getting warmed up. “She was a house elf, for heaven’s sake! Can you truly imagine her killing her mistress? We’ve known a number, even some fairly horrid ones, and honestly it seems quite impossible when you look at it.”

“Well,” Zacharias stutters, “yes. Yes, it does. I suppose. But…?”

“We’re looking for the cup,” Potter says, his grip on Granger’s shoulder firm. “We think we know what happened to the locket, but we really, really want to find that cup.”

Zacharias runs his hand through his hair. You Know Who was sitting… here? “Erm, yes, well, they haven’t been seen since… Since. There’ve been a number of leads, but they’ve always turned out to be rubbish. Just before I… before _we_ all came to Hogwarts, Daddy heard that a Curse Breaker had got hold of the cup and we were all terribly excited, but by the time he was able to go and try to identify it, the bloody fool had melted it past recognition—it doesn’t seem likely that a magical object as powerful as Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup of Healing could be reduced to slag by a slip of the wand, now does it?”

“I suppose not,” Granger says, and once again she is the one keeping a hand on Potter’s shoulder. “Can you tell us anything about the objects?”

Zacharias shrugs. “Well… Not much. They were both very old. And valuable. Obviously. The locket—that was one of Aunt Hepzibah’s acquisitions, it hadn’t been in the family terribly long. It was supposed to have a snake-like shape wrought in emeralds on the front, but I don’t think she ever actually figured out what its magical properties were.” Lifting his cup to his mouth, he sees that both of his guests are listening to him fixedly. Rapt. He sips, clears his throat and continues. “The cup, now that’s another story. It had always been in the family, you see, signifying our direct descent from the eldest of Helga’s three daughters. It’s not a big deal or anything, not like all of that ‘heir of Sytherin’ rubbish, but we’d always felt, you know, proud of it. It was a gold chalice, about so high”—he holds his hand even with the top of the tea pot—“and it had a number of well-documented properties.” Warming to the theme, he ticks off the magical powers of the cup as they were drilled into him as a child: “It neutralized any poison placed within it. It allowed the user to transfigure plain water into whatever potion was most needed. And anything placed within it would be preserved as fresh as the moment it was put there.”

Potter lets out a gasping laugh.

“That seems appropriate,” Granger murmurs, as usual more measured in her response. She has grown into quite a pretty girl, though still a bit of a harridan and of course Muggleborn. Even so if Potter can be encouraged…

“Thank you,” Potter says, and he is at last sipping at his tea. “That’s really helpful.” His expression is still stony; Potter and Zacharias have never exactly been _friends_ but all through this visit Potter has been positively frosty.

“Look, Potter,” Zacharias says, “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot in the DA. But I do appreciate what you did. At the very least the lot of us all got better OWL scores in defense then we ever would have. And you _were_ right to tell us about… about You Know Who coming back.” Whatever the outcome of the present conflict, Harry Potter is certain to be a person worth knowing; there seems to be nothing to gain by alienating him.

Potter blinks and shakes his head. “That’s okay. It really didn’t bother me that you asked all of those questions, they all seemed like the right things to ask to me. It bothered the twins a lot more than it did me.”

“Then,” Zacharias presses, knowing he is taking a chance, “why do you seem so angry with me?”

Blinking, Potter laughs. “Uh, aside from questioning my judgment, my knowledge of Quidditch and my skills as a captain and a player from the commentator’s stand through an entire match?”

“Ah,” Zacharias mutters. In truth, his memory of that day is rather hazy because… “Oh! I see. It’s because of your girlfriend!”

Potter grumbles, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Can I help it that she’s a tease?” Zacharias blurts—it’s not something he ever intended to discuss with anyone, least of all Potter. “There she is on the train, flirting away with anything that moves…” Laughing, the sunlight in her hair, fingers flipping her skirt, freckles up the outside of her leg, up past her knee, so lovely…

“So you had to grab her arse?” Potter’s face is darkening now.

“I… No!” Zacharias finds that he is sliding his chair back. “I just…. I _touched_ her leg, that’s all, Potter, really!”

“And Susan?” Granger breaks in, her face twisted more in amusement than anger. Still pretty… “And Megan Jones? And Lisa Turpin? And Orla Quirke, for goodness sake—she was only a _third_ year, honestly.”

Zacharias cannot think of a thing to say.

“Girls talk, Smith.”

“Well…” Smooth skin, lips, legs. Bosoms. So… “I… like girls. That’s hardly a crime.”

“No,” Potter says, and now he is smiling too, which is quite humiliating. “But unless you enjoy having them hex you or divebomb you, you might want to keep your hands to yourself.”

Straightening his robes, Zacharias mutters, “Believe me, your girlfriend taught me that lesson quite well.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Potter repeats, almost pleadingly, and they settle into a long, awkward silence.

“So,” Zacharias finally manages to say, “it is odd to see you without your tall third wheel. Where is Weasley at?”

  
  


***

  
  


“Ah, Guinevere, come to your Lancelot at last!” Pansy giggles, leaning back on her bed to show off her outfit—and her figure—to the best advantage. It cost her a fortune at Malkin’s, but Daphne was right, it’s pure sex—layers of semi-transparent fluff, fitted tight to her body and pushing her _up._ All without a bra. Magic.

Ron stands in her doorway, jaw at his chest, eyes wide. Focused at the magically and fashionably enhanced gorge between her breasts. ( _Teeth on my ear, thrusting… “I care.”_ ) His gaze and her own anticipation have her more than ready. “Pansy…”

“Yes, Ron.” He isn’t moving. She pouts. “Why are you all of the way over there? Wouldn’t you rather be…” She swings one leg up onto the bed so that the inside of her leg is revealed. “…over here?”

Whimpering, he chews on his cheek. “I… I don’t think so. I think maybe, maybe I should stay over here.”

She looses a squeak of disapproval and runs a finger up her thigh. “Ron.”

“Pansy,” he grunts, and closes his eyes, “we need to talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk. Please.”

Bloody Gryffindors—always business first. With a sigh of disappointment she swings the other leg up onto the bed. It is difficult to play this game: he looks so _yummy_ there, leaning against the door, and so… _aroused._ “Fine, you can play Galahad for a bit. Talk first.” Fun later.

“I told you before, I’m not Galahad,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No, but you can play Gawain to my Ettard for just as long as you like.”

“Pansy. Please.”

She collapses back on to the bed. “Oh, fine. You’re no fun. We’ll talk. You can open your eyes. I’ve got my legs together. For now”

“Er, good,” he murmurs, anxiously squeezing his eyes open.

“So, Weasley,” she says, staring up at the canopy of her bed, “what shall we talk about? The weather? The attack on Diagon Alley?”

“That, a little,” he answers. “And some other things.”

“Oh, goody,” she snaps, “ _other_ things. _That_ sounds exciting.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes drifting back to the geological décolletage for which she paid so much. Shaking his head, he looks around her room. “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” she says. ( _Don’t get used to it, Weasley. We may not be here much longer._ ) “The bed is very—”

He doesn’t say a thing, but she could almost swear she hears the sound of metal clanging on metal.

“Sorry,” she giggles.

Rolling his eyes, he mutters, “Oh, yeah, right. Look—much as I love playing Make Weasley Blush—”

“But it’s such a fun game, and so easy to win!”

“—you asked me here for a reason, and _that’s_ why I’m here.” He’s standing there, still leaning against her door, arms crossed so that the muscles bulge and _ohhh,_ he looks so _stern…_

“Yes, sir,” she says in her best I’m-a-good-little-girl-I-am voice. It’s one that can reduce Draco to pudding. Draco.

Ron stares at her, and it is clear to Pansy that he is thinking nasty, nasty thoughts, which makes this not-so-good, not-so-little girl feel very good indeed. “Right,” he says after a long stare. “So Snape and Draco and that lot. They still want out?”

“Of course. The Dark Lord is madder than Loony Lovegood. He’s… They’re none of them exactly happy.”

“If Malfoy leaves, Volde—”

“Please don’t!” Pansy finds herself pleading—no flirtation now, just fear. At a name. What’s in a name?

Ron shrugs. “Fine. Lord Thingy’ll have the run of Malfoy’s estate. He’s okay with that?”

“He’s got the run of the estate now,” Pansy sniffs. “And the vaults.” If Draco is away from Wiltshire, he can block the Dark Lord’s control of the family gold.

“Ah,” snorts Weasley, “there it is. I knew you couldn’t want Ferret Boy just for his looks.”

Her fifty-galleon shoe is off of her foot and smacking the wall next to his head before she’s even had a moment to consider a course of action. “Don’t you dare! I _love_ Draco!”

Straightening up again, he peers at her. “Yeah,” he says with a nod, “I thought so.”

Suddenly the bare expanse of flesh over her heart seems far too revealing. “Well, you’re enthralled by Madam Swotty McBucktooth. You’re hardly one to sneer at me.”

“No.” A small, sad smile bows his thin lips. “You’re right. That’s why… That’s why as much as I’d like nothing better than to run on over there and rip that ridiculous bit of filth off of your body and make you scream until your parents came running, I’m going to stay over here, and I really, really want you to stay over there.”

“Ah,” she says. ( _Bloody Gryffindors_.) She is angry. And disappointed. But a part of her is relieved that she won’t have to welcome Draco with the marks of Weasley teeth on her breasts and thighs. As pleasant as the sex would be, and as pleasant as it would be to hurt Draco for hurting her, he is just too volatile now, that much is clear. And…

And she loves him. ( _Bloody Hufflepuff_.) “Fine,” she says, curling her silk-encased legs demurely beneath her.

Ron gives her a pained smile. “Thanks,” he says, sounding relieved. “And… Yeah. I’m sorry. ‘Cause, believe me, the way you look, the letters, I’ve been thinking about, you know, being _with_ you again non-stop.”

“Even when you’re _with_ Granger?”

“Don’t,” he says, flinching, and then shrugging dejectedly. “And you? You thought about me while you were with Malfoy?”

( _Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed._ ) “Perhaps,” she grants.

“So,” he says, as if he’s proved some great theorem, “there you are.”

“Yes. There you are.” She sighs. She can see the logic of what he’s saying—and it isn’t just doing the quote-right-thing-unquote, it’s doing what’s going to get Pansy what she most wants: Draco, safe and out of the Dark Lord’s clutches, his body, mind and fortune intact. “So,” she says bracingly, attempting something like a McGonagall voice, “Professor Snape and Draco want to try to make it happen in four weeks—the full moon’ll mean that not only are the werewolves all on the prowl, but the Dark Lord’s forces will be spread thin, keeping their attacks focused.”

Ron nods, and for the next fifteen minutes they discuss tactics and strategy, agreeing on a time, place and method for the defection. Pansy is surprised at his easy grasp of the details, and his insight into the nuts and bolts of what she begins to understand is a very complex operation. Slowly, she begins to see a side of this man that she would never have suspected was there, pushed off as he has been in the shadows of his two rather more showily remarkable friends.

As they wrap up the discussion, he has finally made his way across the twelve-foot divide that separated them. He is sitting on her bed, drawing diagrams with his fingertip on the silk. “So once you’ve heard back from… from Malfoy and that lot, you’ll get me a message.” He glances up at her, lying on her belly. “Erm, would you mind sending it via Nott next time? Greengrass…”

“Yes, she told me she _threw_ herself at you,” giggles Pansy—well, if she were being perfectly honest, she snorts, but when is Pansy ever _perfectly_ honest? “I bet that caused quite the scandal.”

“Uh, yeah,” He’s blushing again, but smiling, and really, she would love to kiss him, but no—he was right. Eyes on the prize.

Still, it’s so easy to tease him. “All your Gryffindor friends thoroughly disgusted to see you _bathed_ in Slytherin _breasts…_ ” It only takes a slight adjustment, but she plops her chest on his other hand where it’s resting on the bed, just to see what he’ll do. _La belle dame sans merçi_.

What he does is quite marvelous: he nearly swallows his tongue and his face turns a shade of magenta that Pansy would have sworn didn’t exist in nature. Then, after spitting and spluttering of a moment, he turns his hand and gives her a hard _tweak._

Pansy squeals, and Ron laughs, pursuing his advantage and tickling her, and they’re both howling with laughter, only suddenly their lips are meeting—she still on her stomach, he, pressing down on her, and she is reaching back, yanking at his robes, pulling at his trousers, and he groans when she reaches flesh and then he starts swearing—most likely at himself, though possibly her. His body responds, either way, and soon the far-too-much-gold robes are yanked up over her arse and he tears yet another pair of elf-spun knickers to shreds and she lies there, writhing in need, in anticipation…

When he stops. And hisses.

His fingers graze gently in a circle around her right hip—not erotically, but like a healer, careful but dispassionate. “Who…?” he whispers in what sounds something like awe.

The bruise. Draco’s fingers holding her in place while he—

“He… did this to you?”

For no reason that she can discern, she starts to sniffle and nods.

“Bloody…” His voice is dark now, and angry. “He…? And you still want this bugger _back_?”

Again she nods; the tears continue, but now too there is anger to match his. “Yes.”

They lie there, and she can feel his passion and hers draining away. Gently, he moves off of her and pulls her robes down over the mark of Draco’s violence; less gently he closes himself away.

She cannot turn to him.

“Pansy,” he says finally, back at the door.

Still she does not turn.

“You deserve better,” he says, and it is heartfelt and urgent, but it makes her want to spit, to ask _Do I really?_

But by the time she works up the courage to move, he is already gone.

She lies there on her bed, wrapped in her seven veils, with no one to undress for. She considers crying, but can’t be fussed.

Some time later—it is after dark—her door bangs open, and Pansy sits up, pulling her robes up to cover what they’ve exposed over of her breasts.

Her father is standing there, pale, his wand trembling in his hand.

“Daddy?” She hasn’t seen him in days. Perhaps he is a ghost.

“I’m going away, Pansy,” he says, his usually rich voice a thin croak. “I… Your mother is asleep and I couldn’t… I needed to tell you.”

“You’re…” She shakes her head. Going away?

“I… There was… a disagreement.” A sheen of sweat begins to glisten on his chalk-white forehead. “I… Gupta. Is. Dead.”

“Oh.” Pansy’s stomach lurches; she sits up. “Daddy…”

Her father holds up his hand. “I need to go, Pansy. Now. I’ve met my quota, that’s the important thing, and if I go, the… No one can touch what’s left in your mother’s trust, or yours.”

“Daddy?”

“I have to go.” His chin wobbles—Pansy doesn’t recall his throat having so many folds or wrinkles before. “Pansy, I… I’m. Tell the Patils.” He stands speechless for a moment.

“Tell?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Daddy,” she cries, “where—”

He is already gone, faded way as quickly as April snow, and now Pansy is left truly with nothing, the last pillar of something approaching certainty melted melting away with him, and for the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson has no idea who or where she is.

_Lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from TBranch, “Pansy Noire” — used with permission.


	28. Draught of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is right, and what is easy. You know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some true gen, this time, focusing on one of my favorite characters in the series.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, aberforths_rug, whom you might want to keep an eye out for... ;-)

“The Joneses—Gwenog and the parents—are all waiting outside of the hospital wing,” says Poppy primly, “but I wanted to know what I could tell them.”

 _Tell them Hestia’s going to spend the rest of her life a tormented, demi-human monster_ , Minerva wants to snap. Instead, she rubs her eyes and looks out the window. “Tell them that she was bitten yesterday, obviously. They need to know.”

The nurse nods. “She’s still bearing some marks from her first transformation. Thank goodness yesternight was the last of the full moon. The poor dear… Remus was able to help her through last night, thank goodness, said his friends had done the same for him once upon a time, but there was no time to give her Wolfsbane…”

“Yes,” sighs Minerva. They both know too well what effect transformation has on the unprepared, and the Wolfsbane Potion needs to be administered for more than a week before the full moon to have any effect. “Is he still there?”

Again Poppy nods. “To be honest, he was quite exhausted this morning, so I’ve got him in bed too, not that he went willingly. And Tonks is still in shock.”

“Poor girl,” Minerva finds herself saying before she remembers that she is not in this moment headmistress but head of the Order, and that her charges are not children, and that they need discipline far more than sympathy at the moment. Still, a four-hour firefight against a dozen Death Eaters, most of them alone, a werewolf-bitten comrade bleeding at her feet—Miss Tonks has every reason to be in shock. “Is Remus at all presentable?”

“Oh, you know our Mr. Lupin,” says Poppy, sharing her first smile of the morning, “always charming no matter how tattered.”

“True.” Minerva smiles too, for it is as apt a description of Remus Lupin as any that she has heard. “Perhaps he could help you speak with the Joneses, to give the… condition a more human face.”

“He certainly could.”

“But they are not to be told the nature of Hestia’s mission, is that clear?” Now Minerva feels more in command. “They have my sympathy, but there is no knowing where _their_ sympathies may lie.”

“Yes, mum,” answers the matron, not quite able to stop herself from delivering a small bob before turning and leaving.

As the door closes heavily behind her, Minerva McGonagall collapses back into the ridiculously large chair that she has inherited from Albus, and from Armando before him. ( _A wee dram… No._ )

First September. The school should be bustling, elves madly cleaning, Mr. Filch screaming at all and sundry, owls reporting from the Express, from the families of children who missed the train. The Scots students should be arriving in a few hours on the Hogsmeade Special.

Instead, the castle is quiet, empty but for a small contingent of Aurors, a few of the staff, and three patients in the hospital wing.

Picking up her spectacles from the desk with a determined sigh, she glances down at the stack of correspondence that must be got through. An update from Molly Weasley on the Order’s current stores—dangerously low on Floo Powder and several other essential items, though the Floos are being closely watched by the Ministry these days—and a number of rather costly items must be obtained if Elphias is to double the amount of Wolfsbane that he is to produce. A long, discursive note from Griselda Marchbanks with recommendations on the reorganization of the Charms curriculum—could pass that along to Filius, but he’ll most likely burn it and so she saves him the trouble. A short, gruff note from Augusta Longbottom that brings a smile to Minerva’s face—Neville’s new wand is apparently a bit _too_ well suited to him, since he has broken two vases and a crystal decanter by Levitating them into the ceiling when he merely intended to float them across the room. What Augusta expects Minerva to do about this information is not altogether clear.

George Weasley wrote to say that Barnabas Toke snuck in to headquarters late last night, drunk as a skunk, and swearing he’d been providing covering fire from the rear of the Misses Tonks and Jones’s position until he himself had been overwhelmed and driven into hiding. Clearly not to be trusted with a high risk mission.

A scribbled note from Charlie Weasley is rather more worrying: the Patil girls arrived at this morning’s meeting of the DA understandably beside themselves; that they came to the session at all is probably a sign more of their rage and grief than of their balance. Apparently the entire session was taken up in the two usually even-tempered girls’ explosions—crying one moment, flinging hexes and promising death to Pansy Parkinson the next. A headache begins to pound, but she writes a letter of condolence to the twins’ mother Lakshmi in which she invites herself to come and visit the girls the next day after luncheon.

Next she writes Miss Parkinson, suggesting that she may drop in for tea to discuss matters of some urgency. She does not particularly _like_ Miss Parkinson, and her father’s apparent actions suggest her family’s allegiance as strongly as her own sycophancy towards the Malfoy boy, yet for all that she is venal and narcissistic, Pansy is not stupid, nor does she seem particularly ideologically motivated; perhaps a word will yet do much not only to save the Patil girls from Azkaban, but to sway Pansy to the side of Light.

As Minerva is putting a seal to the last note, the hearth flares green, and a huge, well-coifed head appears in the midst of the flame. “Good day _, Minèrve_ ,” says her fellow headmistress.

“Olympe, what a pleasure,” she says, and though she does enjoy the enormous woman’s company, there is no immediate cause for them to speak; they conferred on Order matters only last Thursday.

“As always, likewise,” mutters Olympe. “I wanted to let you know that some of my kin may be coming for a visit.”

“Your… kin?” ( _She can’t mean.._ )

“ _Oui_ , on my father’s side, _vous comprenez._ ”

( _She does._ ) Giants. Merciful heaven. “Oh, my.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Olympe says with a nod. “I wanted to make sure that they did not arrive with you unexpectedly.”

Minerva takes a deep breath and nods back. “I believe one of my students may have encountered one of your cousins just the yesterday morning.”

Madam Maxime closes her huge eyes and heaves a sigh. “Ah. How charming.”

When Tonks said that one of the enemy had been a giant, Minerva thought perhaps the girl was merely suffering from neurasthenia, battle fatigue. Clearly not. “Yes, indeed. Perhaps we should expect more than just the one, then?”

It seems odd to see Olympe Maxime’s full face look pinched, and yet pinched it looks. “ _Ah, oui_ ,” she says. “Per’aps an ‘alf a dozen or so.”

“Oh,” gasps Minerva, and then adds for any Ministry eavesdroppers, “how lovely.”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank you for the… warning,” Minerva says. “We’ll look forward to entertaining them.”

“Your hospitality is always most generous,” answers Olympe, and disappears in a puff of green smoke.

“Good lord,” Minerva cries when the Floo is safely closed. “Half a dozen giants? What on earth shall we do?”

“The best that you can,” says a warm, dry voice from behind her. “And that is usually more than good enough.”

( _A wee dram. Later._ ) “However did they get in undetected?” she mutters.

“Well, I do think that the Aurors have been more than usually distracted of late, have they not?” asks Albus’s portrait. “And no doubt they came in as Hagrid brought his brother—disguised as boulders aboard gravel barges.” Then he gives a low chuckle.

Minerva really doesn’t feel like dealing with one of Albus’s _moods_ today, truly she does not. She needs his help. “What on earth is so amusing, Albus.”

“Well, your little performance with Olympe just now reminded me just what a good spy you were once upon a time, Minerva. Quite good at traveling incognito yourself.” He lets loose another low laugh. “I have always had particularly fond memories of meeting up with you just north of Caen…” Another chuckle.

No, she does not have it in her today. “Albus, I would rather not know what went through that perverse and perverted mind of yours at the sight of me in the habit of a sister of the Poor Claires.”

“Then I shall remain as silent as the grave,” he says, and she knows that if she were to turn, his painted eyes would be twinkling, that he would have no idea how devastating a thing that was for him to say. Portraits make terrible conversationalists, even charming ones like the late headmaster’s, for they lack even the most elementary sense of empathy.

“What I need to know—” she begins, but she never manages to ask him just how the Order is supposed to array its already stretched resources to battle giants, because flame bursts into the office again, red this time, and suddenly a familiar inhabitant of this room is trilling on the perch that Minerva has somehow never had the heart to remove.

“Fawkes, my dear bird, how lovely to see you!” says Albus, and in response the phoenix sings a song of such sweet sadness that Minerva’s breath is squeezed from her chest.

The portrait behind her sighs. “Ah, Fawkes, my friend, how I miss being able to understand you. Alas, my faculties are sadly diminished. Yet it is indeed a pleasure to see and to hear you once again, paint and canvas though I may be.”

The phoenix’s song now is purely sad, and Minerva’s heart is nigh to breaking—or perhaps she only now is made aware of how close to breaking it has been all along. With a golden claw, the bird holds out to her a tightly rolled parchment. “Thank you,” the headmistress manages to mutter, turning the letter to reveal the very familiar, very tight script of Hermione Granger. As on the previous two occasions that Fawkes—or, as the girl insists rather whimsically on referring to the bird, Firesong—brought a missive from the three prodigals, it is Hermione that wrote.

Not that Minerva misses reading Potter’s writing—nor Weasley’s, Lord knows—but she is worried about all three of them, and she would like to hear that they are well directly.

As usual, the letter opens with vague assurances of the trio’s health and their continued assiduous pursuit of whatever quest it was that Albus set them on.

She has asked the portrait several times just what he sent the three children to do—for though they may be adults in the eye of the Ministry, in her eyes they are her own students, and therefore forever to be numbered among the only children that she has ever had. Indeed, she threatened to feed the picture to Charlie Weasley’s dragon if it could not be forthcoming. The thrice-cursed portrait, of course, twinkled its eyes at her and remained mute. Silent as the grave indeed.

This letter’s true objective is quickly thereafter revealed: Granger wishes to know the whereabouts of Aberforth Dumbledore. It is a question that has troubled Minerva since Albus’s funeral; though the Hog’s Head has seen a huge upswing in prestige and business since Rosmerta’s complicity in the headmaster’s death became known, the owner has been conspicuously absent, and the poor barmaid there has been besieged. Yet even when Minerva waited for the young woman after Last Call, she was unwilling—or unable—to answer Minerva’s questions, hair frazzled, smock stained, but no less determined to serve her employer and to guard his privacy.

“Would that I had your gift for Legilimency,” Minerva sighs.

Fawkes—or Firesong, or whatever the bloody bird is named—coos at her, while Albus’s portrait tisks. “Legilimency can be a curse as much as it is sometimes a terribly useful tool,” he says. “Harry Potter has learned that to his own cost, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Minerva says, her lips pinching together of their own accord. “Miss Granger is seeking for your brother.”

“Oh, dear,” the painting says, managing to sound both pained and amused. “I’m afraid that, since the goat incident, my brother has learned how not to be found when he does not wish to be.”

“Perhaps,” Minerva snaps. She would never have spoken so sharply to the original Albus, though she might have been tempted to. “But what should I tell the girl? There surely must be some safe place to leave a message for Aberforth.”

There is a silence—the unnatural, summer silence that should never blanket this school in September. After a minute or more, the portrait answers, “Perhaps if Miss Granger—and her friends—were to send a note to my brother at his place of business via Fawkes here… Yes, I believe the young lady who works for Aberforth would know what to do from there.”

The nasty portrait across the way—Headmaster Black, who was still a legendary target of scorn in Minerva’s days as a student—mutters, “Is this the headmaster’s office, or the Owl Post, I ask you?”

“Shut up,” says one of the other portraits, for which Minerva is quite obliged.

“Thank you, Albus,” Minerva says, and efficiently responds to Granger’s request. Once the letter is done, she holds the parchment out for Fawkes (no, she will never be able to think of the bloody bird as anything but Fawkes). The phoenix takes the letter, and then leans its head forward so that its eyes fill Minerva’s sight; it then looses a slow, low note, and as Minerva’s throat begins to thicken, it nods once and disappears in a flash of Gryffindor-colored flame.

By the time that she has stopped crying, the sun is beginning its afternoon march across the office floor. Minerva can just see the Quidditch pitch, empty in the unseasonably warm September sun.

“Minerva,” says the portrait behind her in a voice that is low and sad like the phoenix’s, “do you remember when I first visited your family?”

She snorts wetly and spins the huge chair around. “My mother said that I was canny, and my father said, ‘ _Un_ canny’s more the like.’”

“Yes,” says Albus, and he is smiling, and though she knows it is merely a portrait, Merlin help her, she cannot help but smile back. “Do you remember, I wonder, what you asked me when I told you what you, in fact, were?”

“I asked whether I would be able to do magic.” It is the question that most Muggle-born ask when told that they _were_ in fact different from their peers.

“Yes, of course you did,” Albus answers, that intoxicating smile still warming the whole canvas. “And when I said that, yes, you would be able to do all sorts of lovely spells, rather than ask for a demonstration as so many do, you asked—”

“I asked… if I would be able to make the world better.” Standing there, staring up at the imposing, white-bearded figure in the odd, plum-colored suit, for all that her question was huge, thinking of nothing larger than her parents’ poverty and the death of young Oonagh to influenza the spring before.

“You did.” He nods, and the smile does not waver. “And do you remember what I said in return?”

“You said…” It is the moment in which Minerva McGonagall became Albus Dumbledore’s forever. “You said that it is within each human spirit to do wonderful things, whatever the means. And that it is in each human heart to choose to make the world around us better… or not.”

“Yes,” says Albus, and smiles serenely down at Minerva, who feels, peering up at him, once again like the eleven-year-old girl she once was and not a witch of nearly eighty years that she appears to have become.

“It is hard, Albus,” she sighs.

“Oh, yes, it is, Headmistress.” The smile does not dim, but the eyes sadden. “And it never ceases to be. ‘What is right, and what is easy,’ you know.”

“Yes.” She sits there for another five minutes, staring up at the portrait, which seems to have no more to say.

Minerva is about to go down to the hospital wing to visit the Joneses, Miss Tonks and Mr. Lupin when the Floo flares green again. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s shiny pate seems all the darker for the green tint of the Floo. “Professor,” he says, face tight, “there’s been a development. A half-dozen of the Dementors seem to have snuck past Charlie’s patrols and have reached London. He can’t attack them here, and they’re creating turmoil here that is just…”

By the time that Minerva has finished her conversation with Kingsley—the despair that the awful creatures are spreading throughout the metropolis has transformed what was already a crisis after the Spencer girl’s death into an outpouring of public grief that seems totally out of proportion with the actual tragedy—a call from Sturgis has come in confirming Miss Tonks’s sighting and Olympe’s intelligence. A handful of giants have been seen making their way across the South, and though they have not as of yet done damage, they are certain to do so.

Minerva marshals her forces, such as they are: few of the Order’s forces can cast a corporeal Patronus, but they will have to do what they can. Remus and Tonks are sent straight from their hospital beds to London, bless them, to join the Weasley twins, and Minerva makes a Floo call that she swore to herself she would never make: she reaches Ginny Weasley, who is having tea with the Lovegood girl, and asks her to pull together however many of the DA that she believes can manage a full Patronus to meet with her brothers in London. Molly she informs by post, along with the other parents of the students that Ginny suggested—not the Patils, however, not tonight—requesting the children’s assistance in the current crisis. She feels afterward that she should have used the Floo, but… Even Minerva feels overmatched by Molly when she is feeling protective of her brood. Ginny and the boys will be safe enough, Minerva knows—they will only be hearding the Dementors, not confronting them directly. Even so…

The giants she confronts with the only weapons at her disposal: Charlie Weasley and that dragon of his. Her orders to Charlie are clear: keep them in your sight, but do not attack unless they are headed toward populated areas. She does not think that even a dragon will be able to take on six fully-grown giants, and she does not wish to lose so powerful a weapon.

Hagrid and Grawp she writes, asking them to head from their current hiding place in Cornwall towards Devon; it seems likely that these new giants are headed towards the Dark Lord’s stronghold in Wiltshire, just to the north; perhaps some of them may prove less than hostile, and perhaps the two brothers can convince some of the behemoths to side with the Order.

As the operations move into action, the sun begins to set. Thank goodness last night was the last of the full moon. Hestia and her family will be spared another night of horror—until next month, of course.

Minerva eats at her desk, house elves coming and going all but unseen as she receives and responds to communiqués. The moon is shining in through the window by the time she finally gets up and stretches her no-longer limber bones—past midnight, then.

The portraits all offer sleepy salutations.

Stumbling up to her quarters, she murmurs, “Aye, a wee dram, I think so.” Looking back down the stairs, she can see the moonlight just catching the bottom to the frame of Albus’s portrait. _Nae so wee_ , she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of this chapter is adapted from Hillary-CW/Cambryn, “Dumbledore Worrying” — used with permission.


	29. The Serpent Handler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate rarely travels in straight lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mickey, who wrestled with many serpents.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, aberforths_rug; keep an eye out again! (You wouldn't want to step on her... ;-) )

Hagrid stares up at Bludfen, who is three times his height and holding a rock the size of small cow, and thinks two things: first, that she’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen, maybe more beautiful even than Olympe, maybe, or than Norbert, all grown up; and second, that, for the first time since he was a boy, something large and fierce actually frightens him more than a little.

She tosses the boulder just over his head, forcing him to duck; the rock hits some twenty yards behind him, raising a dust cloud and leaving a trench three feet deep. Maybe tracking them for days across the South, separating this pair out… Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

“ _She likes you, Hagger_ ,” chuckles Grawp in giantish. Beside Bludfen, a giant a bit taller than Grawp sniggers; it sounds like the Hogwarts Express chuffing to a stop.

“Er, well, that’s nice,” Hagrid mumbles. It’s odd being the smallest one in a group—smallest by more than half. “ _Er, hey there, Bludfen._ ”

The huge giant woman laughs, both knees bent, her huge breasts bouncing with the laughter. Crows scatter from a dead willow, screeching their disapproval. “ _Dance, little Hagger!_ ” howls Bludwen.

“ _D-dance?_ ” Hagrid gasps, and his half-brother laughs again, slapping his knees.

And there, at the edge of Salisbury Plain, Hagrid begins to hop from one foot to another. Grawp, Bludfen and the other male snort and holler, joining him in a dance that makes the fields around them ripple, and causes a farmer five miles away to blink up at the sky, wondering why he hears thunder on so clear a day.

  
  


***

  
  


Pansy stands at the door, shivering though it’s still warm, trying to think of any reason to go back home—to go anywhere else. In all honesty, she would rather be dropping in on the Weasleys. They, at least, would kill her cleanly. Unless Galahad has done something truly stupid and told, they have no _specific_ reason to hate her, just the Gryffindor/Slytherin principal of the thing.

With the Patils, it’s much more personal.

But she needs to get this over with. It’s been more than a week; Gupta Patil’s been burnt and scattered, and she’s been trying to do this since he died. She needs to get the Patils on her side, so that when Draco and Millie and the rest show up, she’ll be welcome.

And her father asked her.

She raises a gloved hand and knocks.

The door opens, and two sets of identically narrowed eyes peer at her. “I wondered if you would actually show up,” says Parvati—she always wore the bright colors, while Padma favored what passed in their family for more muted tones.

“I asked…” Pansy starts, and then bites back the retort. Now is not the time. “Thank you for having me.”

Parvati snorts; the sound creates an odd dissonance with her air of Hindi beauty and calm. Padma puts her hand on her sister’s arm, and silently leads Pansy into the Patils’ living room.

How many times has she made this same trek across the village? How many times has she walked into this house to see the daughters of her father’s partner? How often did they play with Mrs. Patil’s scarves and saris, drinking tea and nibbling on the candied anise that Gupta Patil so liked?

Not often, recently. They have seen little of each other. There has been no need.

Lakshmi Patil sits in her appointed chair beside her ever-present pot of spiced Indian tea, looking as at peace and as beautiful as ever, for all that her hair is much greyer than the last time that Pansy saw her, for all that the scarf over her head is black, and not the usual parrot-toned veil. “How lovely to see you again, Dhyanam.” she says, her voice betraying emotion that is absent from her face.

Pansy tries to reply but finds that she cannot. She needs to tell the Patils that she and her mother had no part in Plutus Parkinson’s act; that the act was an accident, in any case; that neither she nor her mother have had any contact with her father, nor, more importantly, do they have any access to or knowledge of the gold that Pansy’s father allegedly stole from the firm. That Pansy and her mother do not sympathize with the Dark Lord, which is true—Pansy thinks he’s an omnicidal madman and her mother is so thoroughly drunk that she wouldn’t care who was playing silly-buggers-in-black-robes so long as her little glass of absinthe remained full.

Instead, looking at the three Patils—the girls who were her playmates up until they all started at Hogwarts, and the woman whose preternatural tranquility Pansy has always so admired—she finds herself beginning to snivel. ( _Pathetic._ ) She does this much however: she passes along her father’s message, even if it is inadvertently. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m so, so, so…”

  
  


***

  
  


Dudley watches as his father welcomes the peculiar looking gent in. Peculiar, yeah, but _familiar_ , too—the moustache, the eyes… Something funny about the eyes.

“Marge suggested I come to you, you see,” the old gent burbles, all blubber and smiles. He’s sitting in the best chair in the lounge—the one the daft old bearded geezer was sitting in last year. “I’d stay with her, of course, but I’m allergic to dogs, more’s the pity.”

“Stay?” Dudley’s parents murmur together.

“Well, you see,” says this old tub, “things have gotten sticky in the _community_ , you know, and after all, where am I to turn but to family?”

Dudley has a sudden flash of the Granger girl’s face getting all pruney when Dudley mentioned his middle name was Slughorn. Why…?

“ _Community_ , did you say?” asks Dudley’s dad.

His mother sits up terribly straight, smiling the way she does when she’s certain she’s about to hear something nasty. “Stay?” she asks again.

“Well, of course!” the old gent burbles. “If I had known before this last year that my own nephew was married to Lily Evans’s sister! That they’d been kind enough to raise Harry Pot—”

In an instant, Dudley’s parents turn their favorite shock shades—chalk white for Mum, bright purple for Dad. “Do you mean to…?” splutters Dudley’s mother; she reaches for her throat.

“One of _them!_ ” roars Dudley’s dad, spit flying from his moustache—zero to foaming in two seconds flat. “No! Filth! Abomination!”

The walrus in the green waistcoat blinks his beedy eyes. “Now, nephew…”

“I will not!” howls Dudley’s dad. “No! Not possible! My family! _Freaks! HER SIDE!_ ”

Dudley’s mother hardly seems to be hearing her husband, which Dudley thinks is pretty wild, since he’s blowing harder than Dudley’s seen him do toward anyone but Harry in years. She grabs Uncle Horace’s fat hand. “Do… Can I give…?”

“OUT!” howls Dudley’s father. “OUT OF MY HOUSE! THAT! BOY! FILTH! FREAK!”

Dudley’s mother continues, though the old gent is shrinking back in alarm. “My sister… Something for my nephew. Only he left…” She pulls a necklace out of her top—a little golden bird that seems almost alive.

“GET! OUT! OF! MY!” Vernon Dursley suddenly stops his tirade. He is the color of the cheap French wine that Piers knicks from his sister for them to drink in the park. Suddenly he stops, his hand flying to his temple. “Oh, blast,” he says, and then sinks to the carpet.

Dudley is suddenly on his feet, staring down. His father is flat on his back, looking as if he’s gone totally slack, though his color’s just as high—his chin open, the loose flesh of his jowls flowing down over his neck. “D-dad?”

“Vernon!” Petunia screeches, on her knees.

The old fellow is backing away, one of those wand things suddenly in his hand.

“ _Do something!_ ” Dudley’s mother howls at the old man. Old wizard. “He’s hurt! He needs help! You’ve got your magic!”

Even staring down at his father’s unmoving face, Dudley is shocked to hear _that_ word pass his mother’s lips. The old bloke raises his wand and Dudley reflexively scoots backwards.

Uncle Horace passes his wand over his nephew’s body a couple of times, his hand shaking badly. “I… I’m not a Healer,” he whinges. “Even if I where…” Horace Slughorn waddles backwards again, starts to turn…

And disappears with a pop.

Dudley’s mother squawks; Dudley joins her. She leans over her husband… Over his body, wailing, the golden bird bouncing on his cheek, tiny bits of bright gold dust dancing. His eyes are bloodshot, and they don’t move.

Later, Dudley will feel as if everything slowed in those minutes as he and his mum grew certain that Vernon Dursley was dead—that the minutes lasted hours, and that the feelings were stronger than anything he’d ever felt, which wasn’t a surprise, though Dudley mostly stays shut of _feelings_ and such.

In the moment Dudley can only think that he’s gone from gaining an uncle to losing a father in less than half an hour.

  
  


***

  
  


“Are you going to send it, Aberforth?” his barmaid asks. It’s a good question she’s posing, he supposes—one he’s been worrying backwards and forwards since he got the letter from the Potter boy.

Albus set great store by the Potter boy, it’s true.

It’s also within the realm of possibility that the locket in his hand is the one that Potter and the Granger girl with the unreadably tiny scrawl are looking for, one that Mundungus might have knicked from Potter’s own house.

But Aberforth has learned not to do things just because they’re right. Never just because they’re right. He is not by any means his brother.

Even so…

He looks down at the locket, its emerald-studded front glittering in the candlelight. It isn’t the prettiest trinket Aberforth’s ever seen, and he’s seen his share in the course of his long life. And its magic is very well hidden—though there’s definitely something there.

He stretches his long legs out and rests his bare feet on the rug—poor Beelzebub. The bauble’s of no really use, and the Potter boy has offered to pay…

And it was to find this trinket that Albus went on the mission that killed him, the letter said. There is that.

“Yes,” Aberforth says, nodding up at his barmaid. “Get ink, parchment and quills.”

She raises her eyebrows—it’s unclear whether at the choice, at the heretofore unheard-of request for writing implements or the fact that Aberforth has strung more than three words together in a sentence, Aberforth himself can only guess.

When she brings paper, pens and ink at last, Aberforth settles himself at the grainy table, chewing on his lower lip; his beard keeps flowing over the paper, and Aberforth keeps brushing it back to keep it from getting stained with ink.

_Dere hary pottr I write you this to sind the lukkit what you arst fr. My bruthr said u wus a gud boi, and so I’m doin it…_

  
  


***

  
  


In the doorway, Aadi watches her employer struggling with the words, and wonders that he can be so like his brother and so unlike, both at the same time. Then she picks up her cloth and goes back to polishing the glasses. Nice to have all the Hogsmeade and Hogwarts mucky-mucks coming for butterbeer and port, but they make messes, just like the old-timers.

It’s all a twisting, weaving web, she decides. Good, bad, like a snake that’s swallowing its own tail, and all a body can do is grab it behind the head so it won’t bite.

And hold on tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the top of the chapter is adapted from an anonymous medieval artist, “Ouroboros”


	30. Shadow of Your Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday present that Hermione gives herself doesn't turn out at all as she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been leading up to this for a while... >.<
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for keeping me (and Ron and Hermione) honest... ;-)

Hermione dabs at her lips. “Are you sure we should have left him alone with them?” she asks, knowing that she probably sounds ridiculous as she folds the linen napkin and deposits it with her plate on the room service cart.

Ron pops another profiterole in his mouth and smirks. “What, leave Hagrid with a bunch of house-sized, blood-thirsty giants? He’s in seventh heaven!”

Even Hermione has to laugh at that.

“Besides,” Harry says, “He’s got his brother there.” His smile is less bright.

“Yeah, there’s a terrifying thought. Anyway,” Ron adds, leaning back onto the bed in a manner that Hermione finds extraordinarily distracting, “this totally changes the way things play out.”

“How do you mean?” asks Harry, since Hermione is lost in the way in which Ron’s chest, stomach and pelvis articulate so miraculously, like a dragon in flight.

“Well, Voldy-thing started off thinking he’d have six giants and we’d have none—he might not even know about our little mate Grawp.” He rolls onto his stomach and begins to trace what looks like his interminable Quidditch plays or chess problems on the satin duvet with his finger. ( _Shoulders. Back. Bum…_ ) “So Snakebreath thinks he’s got a force we can’t counter, right? Giants are incredibly spell-resistant, they’re huge—a couple of them could stomp into almost any stronghold the Order or the Ministry try to set up and there’s almost nothing anyone could do.”

Harry wipes the last of his treacle tart from his lips and sits beside Ron on the bed, staring down at the little boxes that Ron is drawing in the red silk. “Right. Even Hogwarts might not be safe.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees, smiling his chess-game smile even while Harry starts to frown. Hermione feels it’s safe to sit on the bed too—since Harry’s there. ( _Just to see the diagrams… Freckles across the back of his hand…_ ) “But now, see”—he erases two of the boxes with a swipe of his finger—“the Dark Prat only has four, still a lot, but _we_ ”—he draws more squares opposite the first set—“we’ve got three, including Hagrid’s girlfriend, who even Hagrid admits is the scariest of the lot.”

A memory of breasts like small rockslides floods Hermione’s brain—she can’t imagine that the boys found them at all appealing, though you can never tell with boys, but she has to admit that there was something fascinating about the outsized enormity of them. ( _Breasts like two young roes… I wonder…_ )

“Plus,” Harry adds, leaning over and drawing another, smaller box next to the Order’s array of giants, “there’s Hagrid.”

Leaning forward, very conscious that she is clad in nothing but the demure lingerie that she got for her birthday, Hermione adds another small box. “And Madam Maxime as well, I think.” Her hand brushes Ron’s as she leans back, and she feels him respond to the breeze-light contact even as she does herself.

“Yeah,” he says, voice slightly thicker. “Yeah, Hagrid’s _other_ girlfriend. So all we need to do is keep an eye on where their giants go—not hard to do—and we’ve got a force that we can counter them with.”

“All that _Professor McGonagall_ needs to do,” Hermione corrects, swinging her legs up on to the bed so that she is lying prone beside Ron. “We’ve got other items on our list.”

Harry looks over at Hermione and smiles. “Yeah. We do. Speaking of which, I’m meeting up with Remus and Bill about destroying the locket and the wand. I’ll spend the night at headquarters, so Ron, it’s up to you to make sure Hermione enjoys what’s left of her birthday.” Hermione knew that this was coming; he told her that he would give them the night together ( _I promised I’d do the same for you_ )but suddenly the time is here, and oh, Merlin…

“Er…” Ron blinks. “You sure, mate? I mean—”

“Yes, Ron,” says Harry. “I’m sure. I’ll be careful, I promise.” Standing, he takes out his wand and walks over to Hermione’s side of the bed. “Happy birthday, Hermione.” Leaning down, he kisses her cheek, something he’s never done, and with a tiny _pop_ disappears.

Hermione meant to send Ginny a note that Harry… Too late now.

Ron blinks, those blue, blue eyes flashing from the spot from which Harry has just vanished to Hermione and back. “Um…”

It is only through exercising the greatest of restraint that Hermione refrains from throwing herself on top of Ron. “I feel badly for Madam Maxime. About Hagrid,” she manages to say.

“What, because of Bloodwin or whatever her name is?”

She nods, letting her leg lean lightly against his, the silk of her robe sussurating between her thigh and his trousers.

“Well,” he says, hooking his bare foot over her ankle, “I mean, it’s not like giants are, you know…” He licks his lips. “Monogamous.”

“No,” agrees Hermione, leaning closer. “But humans… are.” His eyes widen as she closes the last gap between them, her lips capturing his lightly. He groans and deepens the kiss, turning towards her so that they are chest to chest, his cotton t-shirt against the two thin layers of fabric—the robe from Harry, the negligee from Ginny and Luna (both gifts most likely bought by the girls with Harry’s gold)—and it seems too much and not enough.

They have had few opportunities since they left the Burrow a bit over a month ago, and the few have followed a frustrating pattern: tentative kisses slowly growing more passionate until either one, the other or both of them pull back, anxious—or until Harry returns.

Tonight that will change. Hermione is determined that it shall.

When the boys teased her into putting on her new finery, Hermione felt a thrill as one of her oldest fantasies began to take shape: her in silk, ready to be unwrapped by those long, freckled fingers like some large, pale chocolate frog.

Even so, she stood frozen in the bathroom, half-naked, several twinges evoking the equally old, very familiar crisis of nerve. Does he really want this? Does she? And how will all of this make Harry feel?

But when she finally appeared in the doorway in her relatively chaste, incredibly sexy-feeling new night things, Harry smiled nearly as broadly as Ron did.

It occurs to Hermione for the first time that she is of age now in the Muggle world as well as the magical one. At the same time, her body’s response to the feel of those long, strong fingers moving with great purpose over her silk-clad flesh leaves her in no doubt whatsoever of her own womanhood.

Just at the point where Ron’s caresses seem about to cross the line from the marvelously sensual to the truly erotic, he removes his mouth from hers and then slides each hand to safe territory at her ribs.

Biting back a torrent of desire and frustration, Hermione says, “Harry’s really not coming back, Ron.”

Blue eyes narrow. “I thought… The fancy hotel room—I thought he wanted us to spend a nice night…”

“He did.” She leans forward and kisses his chin. “And we are.”

She cannot help but smile when he audibly gulps. As she presses up against him, feeling him tense—with desire, she can only hope—she smiles, kissing her way slowly up his chin line to the sensitive ear that she has discovered he loves to have nibbled.

Suddenly, Ron growls, rolling onto her, his weight, and those hips, and she suddenly feels very aware that under her negligee there is _nothing—_ nothing but her own body, and—

“Want you,” he says, as if the words are made of acid, strep throat in reverse. Huge hands holding her thick scholar’s wrists. “Want you. So much.”

“W-want you too,” she answers, her voice sounding very small to her own ears. ( _Want you to…_ )

His face twists—it never used to twist—and he asks, “ _Why?_ ” A cry.

His weight on her, and it is the perfect cue, the one she has been waiting for forever, to tell him, but she muffs it—like one of those idiotic heroines in her mother’s endless Barbara Cartlands, she can’t _say_ it. Instead, chin quivering, skin blossoming gooseflesh, voice high and far away, she pleads, “Do you really have to ask?”

Whether he hears what she means or not she cannot tell, but his eyes relax; he has heard _something_. He shifts, and her legs tighten against his involuntarily. Staring deeply into her eyes, more unshuttered than he has been in months, he says, “Uh. Hermione. I have…”

The veil descends again. He bites his lip.

Her fingers find his cheek. His eyes close and he shudders against her, making her shudder. “Ron?”

“I…” Another shudder and a small, sad smile. “I still have to give you your present.”

She blinks at the non-sequitur. “My…? You already gave me a present.” ( _You are my present…_ ) The lovely copy of Bartholemew’s biography of Merlin—never mind that she already owns a first edition, this one she will treasure always.

“Yeah, but…” He backs up, and for a moment she is worried that he will pull away altogether, but he’s only reaching into his pocket. ( _How could he have anything in his pocket that I…?_ ) He lifts a small box between their faces. “I… There was no way to get it wrapped, we haven’t—”

( _It can’t. He couldn’t._ ) “It’s… It’s all right. M-may I?” When he nods, she opens the box with trembling fingers. Something fine and golden lies within the box’s velvet interior. ( _It isn’t. Oooooo…_ ) A chain. She gently lifts it out. A chain and small locket; on the lid, two engraved hearts circle each other like a binary star, sometimes seeming separate, sometimes overlapping, sometimes combined. “Oh, Ron, it’s…”

He is staring, not at the locket but at her face. “Do you, you know, like it?”

“ _Like_ it? Oh, Ron!” She leans up, kissing him hard; he gasps in surprise and then kisses her back—lips first and then…

A flash of that old fantasy comes to her and she starts muttering into his mouth, “Wait, Ron. Wait.” He does, looking thoroughly chastened; she smiles. “Let me up a bit. I want you to put it on me.”

He nods, disengaging his lower body from hers rather unwillingly—at least, hers is unwilling to let him go. She squeezes her legs together, stilling a tremor, and gets up onto her knees. With great ceremony, his eyes locked on hers, he slips the chain over her head. The backs of his fingers brush her clavicles as he places the locket, and they shudder together.

Breaking from his gaze, she looks down at the locket, the orbiting hearts. “It… It matches the one that Ginny gave to Harry, doesn’t it.”

He nods sheepishly. “Our grandparents—my mum’s, they belonged to them.” He frowns. “I… I can’t now, but if you want something new, something just yours—”

“No, Ron.” She takes one massive hand in both of hers and places it over the locket—over her heart. “I love this. This is the nicest present anyone has ever given me.”

His look of pleased shock is so adorable that she simply gives in to impulse, leaning forward and kissing him, both of them there on their knees, (Romeo and Juliet… _Hand to hand is holy palmer’s kiss…_ )

As she feels his body responding to the kiss, as her own begins to melt again into liquid desire, she pulls back, knowing that she wants to do this _properly_.

He is breathing as if he’s just come back from a long run, his hands clenching and unclenching in the silk at her waist.

“Ron,” she says, feeling very silly and frightened to be doing something so daring, “I have a present that I want to give you.” ( _Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it…_ )

He blinks. “You… do?”

 _Oh, yes._ Taking his hands and placing them on the neatly tied bow at the front of her robe, she says, voice less sultry than she would have liked, “Would you like to unwrap it?”

Again his eyes close. He moans, the muscles in his jaw and shoulders working, and for a moment she is terrified that his is about to rip her lovely new lingerie to shreds—terrified, but a bit thrilled as well. Instead, he takes a deep breath. “Hermione,” he says—he who she thought understood that there was a time when words weren’t needed—“I need to–”

Her hand stills his lips; he whimpers but stops talking. “Ron. I need… I want you…” _To make love to me. To make love_ with _me. To have sex with me. To split my maidenhead with your throbbing manhood. To become one with me. To shag me. To make me a woman. To deflower me. To take me. To take my virginity. To give yourself to me. To consummate our love. To insert your penis through the protective membrane of my hymen and into my vaginal cavity. To lift me on wings of passion. To let me ride your broomstick. To sacrifice my innocence at the altar of our desire. To know me. To make the beast with two backs. To sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the deaths of kings…_ “I want you. I want us to. Now. _Please._ ”

The _please_ does it, evidently. His eyes fly open and he squeaks as she has not heard him squeak in years, but his fingers begin tremulously to pull at the bow. As he fumbles at it, she realizes that some of the trembling that she thought was his is her own; she is shivering as if she were freezing, though she is far from cold.

At last the tie slips open. She shifts back until her feet touch the floor and she is standing at the edge of the bed. His eyes are wide and focused on hers, but as she lets the robe slip jerkily off of her shoulders, his pupils follow it almost involuntarily down.

Still shivering but past the point of no return, she shrugs from her shoulders the satin ribbons that allow the negligee to keep the pretense of modesty; the ecru sheath slides down over her various bumps and bulges and she is naked to him, uncovered but for the tiny gold pendant that hangs between her breasts.

Suddenly she becomes aware of two things: first, nonsensically, that she is naked—of course she is, she intended that, her poufy belly and dimply thighs and the one wall-eyed breast on open display to Ron for the first time; second, that, full of desire as she still is, she has no idea what comes next. Oh, she understands the physiology and the theory, and even knows several spells, ranging from essential to useful to merely entertaining—Ginny has proven an embarrassingly excellent resource for a witch nearly two years her junior. However, Hermione has no clear idea how to get from here, standing awkwardly naked by the bed, to the bit with the moaning and groaning and calling each other’s name.

Ron fortunately seems better prepared. Still kneeling on the bed, he reaches one huge hand out to her torso, his face transported in an expression of awe that even Hermione can’t pretend is something else. “Oh. Merlin. Hermione.”

She steps tentatively closer so that his fingers brush their goal: her left breast, the one that hangs straight, and the touch of his fingertips to the areola sends a shock of pleasure through her that rather turns off her mind for a while.

It is pleasant not to think.

Sensations: the drag of fingers circling a nipple; explosions of aching pleasure as they squeeze. The wet heat that flows through her to her core as his lips capture the other nipple, as the tongue laves it… Pressure and surrender as enormous arms wrap around her, hands finding her bare, naked, nude, sensitive bottom, pulling her to him and… Small starbursts of agonizing relief as he kisses her chest, her sternum, her belly, no spot unpleased…

At some point he must lift her down onto the bed ( _Flying, I’m…_ ) because she finds herself on her back, head lolling, eyes unfocussed as his mouth and hands flow down—a _tongue_ in her belly button, oh, _Lord—_ wide chest and hands spreading her thighs and she is _flowing_ , she has heard girls say, she has been wet before this, but never…

One last kiss over the last bit of bellying belly flesh. Hands slide down along the insides of her knees ( _Oh! So…! Who knew…?_ ) and she feels like an ocean. His breath hot within her pubic curls, teeth _pulling…_

There are sounds coming from her mouth that may or may not be words and she thinks perhaps that what he is doing to her may kill her, but she is willing to die in this moment, truly ( _When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars…_ ), only she thinks perhaps the next moment may bring something…

His kiss finds her vulva, her _labia majora_ , and a small tremor passes through her—a release of pent-up pleasure and energy that it would take her half an hour of careful masturbation even to approach, but this is just a _preliminary…_

Fingers moving up the insides of her thighs ( _Large, pale chocolate frog…_ ). Hot, hot breath on her _labia minora_ , a chin sliding up along a crevice about which she has not thought at all. His tongue on her clitoris, light, alight, like glowworms, and she screams again.

Her fingers are knotted in his hair, and his…

His fingers press up beneath his chin and…

 _Pinch_.

He stops—stops pushing, stops licking, and she wants to scream again, but in frustration now. She picks up her head and peers between her breasts. He is staring down, jaw slack, eyes wide, a sheen of _her_ glistening across his mouth and chin.

“God, Ron, _please_ …”

He blinks up at her; his fingers stroke her labia, giving relief and robbing her once more of most of her brain. “Hermione… You… You really are.”

Now it is her turn to blink. “What?”

“A, you know. A virgin.”

A sound escapes her throat that is halfway between a laugh and a howl of frustration. Better at least than “ _No thanks to you, Ron Weasley!_ ”

His face is falling once again, and in a flash—for once—she intuits rather than reasons the cause. “I know, Ron.”

He freezes, fingers poised on either side of her clitoral hood.

“I know I’m not your first,” she says, and before he can sputter out whatever no-longer-important apology is turning his face vermillion, she continues with far more kindness than she would have thought herself capable of, “I think it’s good this way. At least one of us knows what to do.” She takes his hand from her _mons veneris_ and pulls it to her breast, grasps the collar of his t-shirt with the other hand and pulls big, strong Ron on top of naked, pale her. His eyes look like saucers.

She kisses him—the taste of her own sex another oddly thought-numbing sensation. She can feel his erection pressing along her vulva through the thin, cotton tracksuit bottoms, and _Ohhhhh_ … Her hands find their way beneath his shirt, and suddenly it is between their faces and off—gone—his smooth, broad chest flowing over hers, and his hips _rocking…_

Without her urging, her fingers find their way beneath the elastic to the trousers ( _His **bum** , oh, Merlin!_), pushing down the last barrier but one between them. He pushes back just a touch. “I…” Through some miracle, her pelvis rocks against _him_ , and his eyes cross. “Bloody hell, Hermione, you’re so… You _knew_?”

Laughing now in earnest, she reaches over to where his wand lies just beneath the pillow. “You thought Lavender would keep quiet about _that_? _Contraceptus_ ,” she says, pointing the wand at herself before aiming it at him. “ _Prophylaxis_.”

He is blinking again, but she tosses the wand aside and with her big toes pushes the tracksuit down to his knees so that his erection falls thickly against her pubic hair. “ _Please,_ ” she sighs.

He lets out a wet burst of air that splashes over her cheek. His hand worms its way between them, positioning that long, long, _long…_ “Loveyou.”

Ginny told her that it would hurt at first— _sting,_ she said, _like when a scab’s pulled off_ (Ginny, whose knees have always been be-scabbed)—and so as he presses up into her ( _Into me!_ ), she bites her lip at the pain, expecting it to ease. It feels as if he has plunged a knife into her and skinned the lower half of her body and though she knows this is not true—the hymen is a small membrane some two to five centimeters in length with a thickness of 1.25 to 2.5 millimeters—the feeling of it tearing is excruciating. Her nails grasp at his back.

He withdraws a bit and _now_ it stings, but then he is pressing in again and deeper, the muscles within screaming and… “ _Ah! Ah! Please! Ron!_ ” She wants him to stop and she wants him to go on, and she is crying with the pain, like nothing she has ever felt—even that awful curse from Dolohov—

Suddenly the pain diminishes and his weight on her eases. He has withdrawn. Completely. “So sorry. So sorry.”

Hermione pushes up onto her elbows. “Ron?”

“Hurt you, I hurt you.” His voice is high and thin; he is curled in an impossibly compact ball at the foot of the bed, white face showing between fingers that are knotted, red, in his own red hair. “Merlin, Hermione, I’m so—”

“Ron?” Heart still pounding, bottom searing, she sits up and reaches out to him. “It’s all right, Ron. It’s just a little, just for a bit.” It _wasn’t_ just a little—she’s not clear how anyone can pretend to _enjoy_ that, but— “We’ll try again. It’ll be easier.”

He flinches when she touches his shin. “No,” he hisses. “Not that. Not just that.”

“Ron?” A numbness is settling into her middle—the pain receptors blocked.

Very softly, body frozen, he murmurs, “There’s… There was someone. Someone else.” A chuckle—a sob? “Hurt you. I’m so, so…”

“You…?” The numbness is now general across her whole body. “Not Lavender.”

Now a laugh, angry, sad. “No. Not after my birthday. But… Those times. When I was meeting about the Slytherins…”

A cold thickness settles in her chest. “You slept with your cousin _Mafalda_? She… She’s _thirteen_!” She’s pimply, and obnoxious, and has a high, nasal voice and wears thick glasses. “She’s your _cousin_!”

“NO!” bellows Ron, and suddenly the blue eyes are upon her. “No, Merlin, Hermione!”

“Then… What are you trying to…?” Intuition strikes again, but the insight that it provides this time is by no means so kind. She remembers Greengrass stumbling against him, passing the letter… _Parkinson’s not so bad_ … “Pansy? You… had sex with Pansy _PARKINSON_?”

This time there is no response aside from the fingers in his hair whitening—two of them are splattered with blood, which must be hers.

“ _Pansy_?” The thickness in her middle is warming. “Ron, how could you?” Six years—six years of taunts and sneers: _swot_ and _Mudblood_ and _cow_ and _chienne_ ; upturned nose and smirking eyes, cloying condescension and the too-tight blouses beneath her school robes and skirts like a slap…

“I know,” he says, and if he were laughing this might all be a joke, but his tone is deadly serious.

“That… racist, snobbish, bullying, sycophantic… _bitch_? Pansy?” Hermione is trembling once again; she liked the other better. “Pansy _Parkinson_?”

“Thought she was you,” he whispers, as if saying it more quietly might make it more sensible. “The night he died,”— _Dumbledore_ , she knows, there’s no need to ask who, though so many have—“doing Prefect rounds; was supposed to be doing them with Padma, but she and Parvati’d already scarpered. And I’m down by the girls’ bathroom and there’s crying—I think it’s just Myrtle, you know, but she floats up behind me, there outside the door, starts simpering, ‘Oooo, she’s so _saaaaad_ …’ And all I can think…”

That bathroom—the troll, Polyjuice. Crying after so many fights. Crying after the Yule Ball. Crying after the first time Viktor kissed her. Crying after the Slug Club party…

“Went in, and there… I thought it was you, still in your school robes, after midnight, I just…”

“Ron,” she says, her mind seizing on one detail, “how could you possibly think Pansy Parkinson was _me?_ ”

He winces through his fingers. “She… She was sitting curled up, crying there, her hair not all… _in place_. And…” His expression—what she can see of it—shifts from anguished to embarrassed. “Erm. From the back. You… look alike. Except your hair’s usually a lot… erm… _wilder_.”

She blinks at him, pondering this imponderable. She and Pansy? She thinks of the loathed Slytherin’s swaying hips, the soft shoulders, the protuberant… “You think my _backside_ looks like _Pansy Parkinson_ ’s?”

“Er. Yeah. And I’m not the only one. There was this bet Seamus was running, who had the nicer… And, er…”

This leaves her so furious on so many levels that she can only laugh.

“I bet on you!” Ron says, as if this somehow makes it better. ( _It does. A bit._ ) “But, see, there you were, I thought, and I wasn’t exactly happy that night either, and I thought, _Now’s the time_ , you know? That night was just so terrible, with Dumbleore and Bill, and I’d wanted to talk… _touch you_ for days, weeks, and there you were. I thought…” A long, low sigh. “Just threw my arms around… her. And…” His eyes are flickering back and forth.

Pansy Parkinson. Hermione is trying to visualize this—is trying _not_ to visualize this. “Pansy. In Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. You had sex with Pansy Parkinson in Moaning Myrtle’s _bathroom_.”

A long sigh. “Yeah.”

“And?”

He blinks. “Um… and…?”

“ _Nice_ , was it?” Hermione finds her teeth clenching–better that than chattering. “Poking pureblood Pansy Parkinson? Sleeping with the school slag?”

“ _It was human,_ ” hisses Ron, eyes slitted. “Yeah, fine, it was… well, not _nice,_ sure, but that night, it was… And she may sleep around more than you or me—”

“Than _I_ , certainly.” It has always amused Hermione that only Ron can bring out her most precise, Austenian syntax. “Doubtlessly.” She is not amused just now. ( _We are not—_ )

Nor is he. “But she’s a _person._ I mean, she’s awful and bigoted and snobbish—”

The sound that leaves Hermione’s throat cleaves to a syntax so old and so universal that it would almost certainly have been understood in Lascaux or on the great Paleolithic hunting plains. Articulators are almost entirely irrelevant to communicating the message.

It communicates, it seems. “What do want me to say?” he pleads.

“Say?” ( _It didn’t happen. It was horrid. April Fool!_ ) “I have no idea what I _want you_ …”

He cowers at the other end of the bed—she has retreated from him.

“Well,” she snaps—it’s a tone she hates, that she knows that Ron and Harry hate, but she can’t help it, and to be honest, in the moment, she just doesn’t care, “you went down to Canterbury in July, you _said_ to meet with your cousin, and then again in August—”

“She is my cousin.” _His_ tone is petulant, which just doesn’t seem at all fair.

“Oh, of course! Because you purebloods are _all_ cousins!” Hermione can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “Incest is a matter of _pride_ with you!”

“Not with me,” he mutters, sounding at least somewhat repentant. “And… Not last month. I told her… We both agreed, no more.”

“What, was it her time of _month_?” She knows she is being a bit cruel, but there is a perverse pleasure in slapping him about verbally. It hardly makes up for the _hurt_ , but it is something.

He looks quite stricken. “ _No_. I didn’t because I… Because we had, you know…”

She pulls her knees to her breasts. Waiting. “No, Ron. I don’t know.”

Ron peers at her. “You. Said you fancied me.”

“I… I _what?_ ” There are times when boys—when _Ron_ seems to speak a language that only _appears_ to operate by the same rules as the English that Hermione has always found so reassuring.

“The night before Ginny’s birthday, that night, that night down in the sitting room, all those years I’d been waiting, but why would you, right?” He seems to be staring at her toes and for a moment she feels the urge to hide them away just to spite him, but the words that are spewing out of him are as hypnotic as they are incomprehensible. The flood splashes on. “I’d been dreaming, and hoping, and wishing, knowing that it wasn’t going to happen, knowing that the best I could ever hope for was that you’d be back to being friends with me, I’d bollixed it up so bloody badly with that mess with Lavender, Ginny telling me, _Ron, you’re an arse, she likes you_ just the way she said, _Ron, you idiot, she was off snogging Krum while you were sitting around wanking away_ , but if I believed one I had to believe the other, didn’t I? And so, fine, I snogged Lavender, just to get you jealous, which was just about the stupidest thing I’ve _ever_ done—”

In spite of herself, Hermione laughs.

He glares at her from behind his knees. “Yeah, fine, stupid, I thought a kiss, a cuddle, then we’d be even, though once I started thinking about Krum again, and what he did—”

“What he….?” She wishes that Ginny were there, or Harry, even though the thought of either of her best friends observing this _mess_ is more than a little humiliating, but just to have _someone_ to translate…

“He was a bloody international _QUIDDITCH STAR_ for Merlin’s sake!” he groans, to all appearances utterly serious. “He was a bloody _man of the world_ and you were just a little girl—”

“He was only two years older than I, Ron,” she says, surprised to find herself at all amused by this. “I was already fifteen by—”

He waves a huge hand—not dismissing, this gesture, but begging room: she has learned to translate _this_ over the years at least. “ _Couldn’t have made the Quidditch team_ , you said, and _Wouldn’t have won without the Felix Felicis_ … Emotional range of a teaspoon? Maybe, maybe you were right about most of it, maybe I don’t understand half of what you do about anything—magic or history or emotional bloody literacy or _anything_ , but I do have _some_ feelings, don’t I? And then, after we’d had our spat, and Lavender was using me like a bloody trophy cup, I thought I’d apologize on the train back after Christmas, but McClaggen—” He delivers this last name with a tone of deep loathing that she has to now only heard him use for Draco Malfoy.

“What about Cormac?” she asks, but not without a shiver of her own distaste.

“Came back from that bloody Slug Club party _full_ of what a _sport_ you were, how you and he’d had a _grand_ old time, all the seventh year boys sniggering like bloody twelve-year-olds, making it _all too bloody clear_ that you’d showed him a _lovely_ time.” For the first time he lifts his head, laughing sadly. “Breaking his nose probably wasn’t worth the trouble in retrospect, but it sure felt like it at the time.”

“You…” Again she laughs, and this time it is full. “You _broke his nose_?”

Sheepish, he nods.

Tears are still in her eyes, and her stomach in knots, but God help her, she _giggles._ “Oh! Ron! You defended my _honor_!” He favors her with a defensive smirk, challenging her to make fun of him and she cannot help but rise to the bait. “It didn’t _need_ it, you medieval idiot!”

He shoots her a look of mingled misery and goofy irony—perfect Ron. “Didn’t know that, did I?” His gaze drifts down again: he is staring at his hand—at her blood on his fingers. “This summer, when you said, it was like a dream, Hermione, it was what I’d wanted, what I’d _waited_ , what I’d wished to hear for so long, and suddenly it made everything else just….”

“Why on _earth_ could you possibly doubt what I’ve felt for you since we were twelve years old?” she asks with something like her usual spirit. “Honestly, Ron!”

He looks at her as if she has suddenly begun to speak Troll. “How could I _doubt_? How could I bloody _know_? Every time I thought you might like me—”

“ _MIGHT?_ ”

“—you’d yell at me about something, or laugh about how bloody stupid I was, or you’d bat your eyes at someone like bloody _Lockhart_ , or—”

She feels the old ire rising, and the hurt and fury is still close enough to the surface that it flares quickly. “And you were a paragon of clear communication, I suppose? Rolling your eyes? _She’s a nightmare_?—”

“Apologized.” He has a sixth child’s knack for speaking in the scant spaces _between_.

“Never a compliment but it’s modified by _scary_ or _mental_?” They are facing each other as they have a hundred—a _thousand_ times, arms crossed, nostrils flaring. The one difference is that this time they are both utterly naked.

“Told you how I felt,” he grumbles, jaw jutting dangerously. “In word and deed.”

“ _What_?”

His head rises proudly. “What bloody boy you know gives a girl bloody _perfume_ if he doesn’t bloody care for her? A bloody _lot_?” Snorting, he looks away. “You sign a letter to me, it’s always, _Yours sincerely_ or _Yours truly_ , which I could only _hope_ meant something, but me?” He turns back to her. “How have I signed my bloody letters to you for the past three years, Hermione?”

She’s about to respond with a smart, thoughtless verbal backhand when the answer hits her: “ _Love. Love, Ron._ ” ( _Emotional range of a—_ )

“I told you how I felt this spring, but even then it was as if I was just a bloody joke, obviously not to be taken seriously—”

She hasn’t heard him speak so… so _emotionally_ since he was venting about Harry after the whole mess with the Goblet of Fire. “When…?”

“ _I told you I loved you, and you can’t even remember?_ ” With a snort, he plops his chin back on his knees. “Proves my bloody point,” he grumbles.

“When…?” Sitting in the common room. Fixing his paper. _I love you, Hermione._ “I… It was a _joke_ …”

“Right,” growls Ron. “It was a joke. Because, you know, Ron would never actually say anything about actual _feelings,_ because he doesn’t _have_ any— _Emotional range of a—_ ”

Her naked hand finds his naked foot of its own accord. “I’m sorry, Ron,” she says. “I was wrong.”

He shivers. At her touch. And smiles sadly. “Yeah. Well. It’s a ladle at least. Maybe even a saucepan.” She smacks the back of his hand; his fingers snatch at hers. “I… _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t… When Park… When I was there, holding Pansy, when I realized it was her, and we were suddenly, you know…”

She does know. She does not wish to.

His fingers squeeze hers. “I did think. I thought, _No, not with Parkinson, this is for **her**_ , for you, you know?” His voice is soaring higher again. “But then I thought, _Sod her. She can snog and shag away with whoever, what does she care for me? She can have her fun, why can’t **I**?_”

“Oh. Ron.” His face when he found her hymen—awe. Terror? “Oh.”

“So, so, so sorry, Hermione!” He is crying, now, Ron— _crying_.

“Shhhh…” Suddenly they are wrapped in each other; legs and arms tangled, as if they were one sprawling, multilimbed creature. His enormous head on her chest, and it is not sexual at all, but it feels _sooooooo_ …

Some long time later, they are both cried out. His head still rests against her breasts. “I’m still furious with you, Ron,” she says, amazed at the way that her voice seems to rumble between them. ( _Conspire. Con-spirare. To breathe together._)

“Yeah,” he answers. “So… Yell at me? Or hit me. Or…” He picks up his wand from where she discarded it—it feels as if it were months ago—and presses it back into her hand. “Hex me. Kill me. I’m so bloody sorry, Hermione.”

She ponders, rolling the smooth wood between her fingers. “Would it help, do you think?”

She feels him shrug against her.

“I don’t want to kill you, Ron,” she sighs into his hair, rolling the wand toward the pillows again. “At least, not just now. You told me that you loved me again, didn’t you, just before we m-made love?”

He nods, and his hand snakes up from hip across her belly and between her breasts, a small frisson spreading in its wake; his fingers close around the locket. “My granddad, when he gave this to Gammer Prewett, he said that people never really become, you know, _one_. That they sort of orbit each other, closer and closer. So that they become something more than they were separate.”

Now she nods, because she cannot trust herself to speak. ( _Something more…_ ) “I l-love you too, Ron.”

He lifts his head and looks at her, blue eyes open, wide, vulnerable.

“Even if you are the world’s greatest imbecile sometimes,” she says, because it seems called for. Then she kisses him and the whir of thought ceases again for a while, which is quite a relief. And when she runs her hand down his chest and belly to his cock, it is quite, quite hard.

“Ron?” she asks, because she cannot help it. “The Slytherins’ defection—?”

“—is because it’s a good strategic risk. And the right thing to do.” He gasps when her hand begins to move. “Sh-she… loves him. Merlin knows why.”

“Merlin knows.” She marvels at the heat and heft of him in her hand. “No one can help who they love.”

He shakes his head, his jaw loose. “Merlin. Hermione.”

Another thought occurs to her; her hand stills. “Do we… Should we tell Harry? About…”

His eyes, which had been happily half-lidded, fly wide. “About _Pansy_? Er… We don’t… I mean, it doesn’t change anything, does it?”

She nods, squeezing him. “All right. We won’t tell Harry.” ( _Ginny. I’ll write… I need to…_ )

He releases a shaky breath and nods. Then he looks up at her, eyes puppy-doggish and hopeful. “He’s… gone till tomorrow anyway.”

Smiling, starting to play with him again, she leans forward and kisses his throat. “I love you, Ron,” she murmurs as he shivers beneath her massed touch. “I do. But if you ever do that to me again, I’m going to cut this off.”

Again, a sobbing laugh, though this one sounds tortured in a distinctly more positive manner. “And I’ll die happy, remembering this.”

“What?” she says, pleased with herself, “my fingers on your _cock_?” The word on her tongue _tastes_ … nasty. Delicious.

“Yeah, that,” he grunts, “and you saying the _word_. But… you saying you loved me. Die… bloody happy…”

It hurts the next time. The second time they make love. They _fuck_. But it hurts less. A little.

***

> _Ne me quitte pas_
> 
> _Je ne vais plus pleurer_
> 
> _Je ne vais plus parler_
> 
> _Je me cacherai là_
> 
> _A te regarder_
> 
> _Danser et sourire_
> 
> _Et à t'écouter_
> 
> _Chanter et puis rire_
> 
> _Laisse-moi devenir_
> 
> _L'ombre de ton ombre_
> 
> _L'ombre de ta main_
> 
> _L'ombre de ton chien_
> 
> _Ne me quitte pas_
> 
> _Ne me quitte pas_
> 
> _Ne me quitte pas_
> 
> _Ne me quitte pas_
> 
> _Do not leave me_
> 
> _I will cry no more_
> 
> _I will talk no more_
> 
> _I will hide myself there_
> 
> _To watch you dance and smile_
> 
> _And hear you sing and then laugh_
> 
> _Let me become the shadow of your shadow_
> 
> _The shadow of your hand_
> 
> _The shadow of your dog_
> 
> _Do not leave me…_  
>  —Jacques Brel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter art is adapted from Reallycorking, “Ron/Hermione” — used with permission.


	31. Claire de Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by the numbers 3 and 4, and by the letter G.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Philosophy and metaphysics. Femmeslash and explicit (fantasy) polyamory. Implied het.

While Ginny reads, Luna leans over her old Arithmancy notes. “Three, you see, is the basic metaphysical number, representing the transcendence of duality— _a_ , not- _a_ , _a_ -plus-not- _a_ ; past, present and future; self, other, union; father, mother, child—while four represents bounded temporal reality—the four cardinal directions, the four elements, the four tails of the Bogwoppet.”

They are lying on Luna's bed this time—Ginny is spending the night, sharing a bed as they've been doing since they were little—and the moonlight slashes across the comforter, framing the compact, fluid curves of Ginny's back and bottom in bright lines of square, crystalline solidity.

Ginny is reading a letter from Hermione.

Luna is trying rather hard not to become lost in reading the glamour of light and shadow that play across the exposed skin beneath her friend's nightshirt. Tipping her head, she notices that Ginny is chewing on her thumbnail as she reads, which is not a good sign. “Ginny,” she says, “you were born exactly twelve months and twelve days after Harry.”

Suddenly, bright, brown eyes flash up from Hermione's letter. “That… I never thought of that.” When she looks at Luna, shadow and light are perfectly bisected by the fine, sharp line of Ginny's nose. “You think that means something?”

This pleases Luna on several levels—not the least of which is purely esthetic, since she has always considered the flash of Ginny's eyes and the shape of her face to be quite marvelous. “Yes. It is rather suggestive, isn't it?”

Ginny seems to be thinking about what Luna has said; though her face has turned back to the parchment, her eyes are directed out toward the window. It causes her whole face to catch the moonlight just _so_.

“Of course,” Luna adds, “my own birthday is exactly seven weeks before his.”

 **Observations:** Luna Lovegood's voice rises in pitch and lowers in volume as she shares this datum. Luna Lovegood had not presumed to share this datum with Ginny Weasley or with Harry Potter. Luna Lovegood's diaphragm is in a sudden state of fibrillation. **Hypotheses:** A) Luna Lovegood has unexpectedly developed a pinched phrenic nerve leading from the tenth thoracic vertebra, causing involuntary contractions of the diaphragm muscle. B) Though still out of season, Nargles may have infected Luna Lovegood. C) Luna Lovegood may be manifesting some physical reaction to an emotional state brought on by the unintended exposure of the Arithmantic relationship between Harry Potter's birthday and Luna Lovegood's own. **Inferences:** Luna Love—

“You know,” Ginny says, her face once again a chiaroscuro yin-yang, “that also means that my birthday is exactly seven weeks and twelve days after yours.”

“Oh.” Luna truly had not considered that. It too is… suggestive.

The eye that is in the dark side of Ginny's face sparkles; the fibrillations increase.

“There are other powerful numbers, of course,” Luna finds herself burbling. “Thirty-one, for instance—”

“Where you thinking about kissing me again, Loony?” Ginny asks, unflinching, unblinking.

“Oh.” Luna considers this question, which is fortunate, because it gives her a moment to get her breathing back within more typical parameters. “I think it likely, yes.”

“Ah.” Ginny looks up at Luna for quite a long time, and then turns back to where Hermione's script lies arrayed in precise battle lines.

Luna feels relief as the moment passes, but she feels a certain level of anticlimax as well; she wonders whether or not she should have taken the opportunity to embrace her friend more intimately than usual. She crawls up behind Ginny, who is lying on her belly, legs splayed. Luna's knees don't quite touch her friends'. From above, the contrast of sinuous curve and sharp shadow-edge is all the more marked. “What is Hermione's letter about?”

“Fidelity,” murmurs Ginny. Her head is hunched down between her shoulders and her hair flows down her neck like a chimera's tail, revealing freckles that flow across pale flesh…

Shaking herself—stopping herself from leaning forward to touch the dancing dots—Luna asks, “Are they having replication problems?”

“Repli—?” Ginny flips onto her back, peering up at Luna with her eyebrows bunched like angry paintbrushes. “What on earth?”

One of Ginny's calves is draping itself across Luna's thighs, which is rather distracting. “Well,” Luna says, fascinated that pressure against the skin just above her knees is somehow triggering nerve endings in several other areas of her body, “you said. In Hermione's letter, you said that they were having problems keeping the copies of something from mutating.”

Ginny's mouth drops open; she sits up so that her bemused expression—an expression that Luna is used to seeing on faces day in and day out—fills Luna's sight. Then she laughs. “Oh!”

“I got it wrong, didn't I,” Luna mumbles. “You meant another kind of, what…?”

“Fidelity,” Ginny says. Her expression rather more intent now, she reaches up and touches Luna's chin, four fingertips gently, the thumb on the other side more firmly.

Four.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” Ginny mutters, lips fluttering like moth wings; she begins pulling away, her fingers releasing Luna's jaw.

“No,” Luna pleads—or some sound conveying the same meaning—leaning towards her friend's retreating lips and body.

The hand that discomfited Luna so is between them now—palm out, fingers up.

Luna finds unexpected words burbling from her mouth: “Not that you have to, you don't have to if you don't want to—”

“That's not the problem,” Ginny says, voice inflectionless, face affectless. “No. Bugger.” Luna begins to reach out to Ginny, but Ginny catches her by the wrist. “Tell me, Luna. Please. Tell me you've proved love is just a bunch of hormones and things we're told to do.”

“I…”

“ _Tell me_.” Ginny's face has gone from blank to fierce with hardly any identifiable change.

“I…” When Ginny's face begins to bow downward, Luna does not think, she merely leans forward, touching her lips to Ginny's; the warding hand brushes against Luna's clavicle, but does not thrust away.

Ginny shivers. “Bugger,” she whispers when they lean back from each other again.

“Why?” Luna asks, since that seems the most sensible way forward. When she sees confusion on her friend's brow, however, she feels it advisable to elucidate. “Why do you want me to tell you that?”

Ginny's eyes burn once more bright and fierce. “If you can prove it, I'll tell you why.”

“But I can't.” At the sad pout on her friend's lovely face, Luna worries. “I thought that would make you happy.”

Ginny lets loose a chuckle in which there seems to be very little of happiness, and for a moment Luna almost leans back to taste—

No. Data and results. Ginny has said, and Ginny always keeps her promises. “I've been doing quite a bit of research since our train ride, you see, as well as some experimenting and direct observation,” Luna continues; she finds that she has slipped the fingers of her free hand around Ginny's. They are linked. “Looking through classical texts and a few modern ones. Do you know that there's a whole bureau dedicated to the subject in the Department of Mysteries? I think that's lovely.”

Again Ginny laughs, and this one sounds even sadder than the last. She flings herself back so that only her feet glow in the slash of moonlight between them.

“Most of the European texts I found are fairly silly,” continues Luna, uncertain as to the cause of her friend's agitation, “because they are completely obsessed with sex, which is rather like spending all of one's time in Care for Magical Creatures studying animal-handling charms. The two things are related, but they're not the same.” Ginny rewards Luna with a first, small smile; it vanishes into the backlit gloom. “It was in some of the old Vedic Arithmancy texts that I found the most useful information—that's why I was talking with you about threes and fours and sevens.”

“And twelves.” No smile, this time, but the eyes glitter. Ginny is rocking, her knees to her chest.

Ginny nods and rolls off of the bed. Walks to the window. Crosses her arms and begins to frown.

 _Too abstract. Time to wrap up._ Instead… Instead Luna talks on, wondering if Ginny can hear the vibrato in her voice. “When I look at you, I want to kiss you and touch you, and have you kiss me, it is true. I also want to protect you and give you all of the things that will make you happy, beginning of course with Harry. And the very peculiar thing is that I feel quite the same way about him—he is so lovely and so nice, and his bottom is so agreeable, and he has such a dreadful life sometimes, and I watched the two of you during the weeks that he was at the Burrow and looking at the two of you was like looking into the sun, so wonderful that it made me almost blind, even if I did get that pinchy feeling sometimes, and even if I couldn't help thinking how much _I_ wanted to kiss you and kiss him—especially after the time that he and I snogged away, which was rather remarkable. How much I would have liked to been the one having sex with each of you…” The fluttering in her diaphragm overcomes Luna for a moment and she notes with some interest that her face is quite warm. Saying the words brings the thoughts forward, of course, and images of Harry's body and Ginny's…

Ginny, silhouetted in the moonlight, standing quite, quite still.

“But that's not all of it,” Luna continues, surprised that she can think of anything but the way that the moonlight carves this beautiful apparition out the night, her red hair burning faintly in the silver-blue glow. “The night that the Death Eaters attacked your brothers' shop, I noticed a number of phenomena that made me look again at some of the observations that I had made, and adjust a number of my hypotheses. When we first entered the shop, I felt myself compelled to put myself between you and danger and in fact was quite distraught that I could not manage to do that—until Harry entered the room. At which point I was merely concerned and frightened, but no longer obsessed.”

Ginny blinks, but does not speak. Which goes as far as anything to explain why. _Trust._

“When Rabastan Lestrange killed Monsieur Delacour, his daughter's grief and rage were terrible—and quite out of proportion, if one were to judge simply by mundane motivations. He was no longer young, he was no longer likely to breed, his death—or so Gabrielle told Eri Nott—benefited both sisters rather handsomely. And yet one can hardly say that Fleur was pleased, any more than I remember being pleased when my own mother died.” A black explosion. Flame, but no light. The lovely chalice a lump of dark metal. “Have you told Harry of our suspicions, by the way?”

“No,” Ginny answers, and turns back to the window. “I couldn't. And now… I'm not supposed to.”

“Ah,” Luna thinks, seeing the trap. “Well, I can,” she says. “I think it would be helpful.”

“I…” Ginny looks back toward the bed, suddenly much less indomitable. “Yeah. You're probably right. I just wish…”

“You wish that you didn't have to talk about first year again.”

“Yeah.” Delicate lips fold wryly. Ginny slumps to the floor. “Pathetic, isn't it?”

“No,” says Luna, who doesn't find it contemptible in the slightest. Which is precisely to the point. Ginny peers across at her skeptically, and so Luna shares what she feels is her most conclusive evidence. “The fact of the matter is, Ginny, that there is a relatively small number of people in the world for whom I would willingly do anything, suffer anything, lose everything.” The moonlight blinds Luna; she turns, and her eyes are drawn to the photograph of her mother, whose expression seems for some reason rather sadder than usual. It is into her pale eyes that Luna looks as she finishes laying out the argument that has consumed her through most of the previous four months. “My father is one. If I could trade my life for my mother's even now I would without hesitating. You, Ginny, are one, and have been for years. Harry is the only other that I can think of. This feeling is separate from the strong urge I feel to touch and kiss each of you—you and Harry, that is, not my parents; though I have always enjoyed kissing them too, it is in quite a different manner.”

Luna expects her friend to laugh at this. It is the kind of statement at which Ginny often laughs rather delightfully. When Luna turns to look back at the window, however, her face remains solemn, her eyes enormous and dark, her lips a straight line. “Luna.”

“So,” Luna continues, feeling as if her friend, her _beloved_ , is seeing her unclothed for the first time and not as part of a ritual that they have maintained for close to a decade, “I am afraid that I cannot tell you what you asked to hear. The evidence that I've gathered, both by inference and by direct experience, suggests that there is some phenomenon that connects us, like…” An image floats into the fore of Luna's mind, one that she had not considered before. “Do you remember the room at the Department of Mysteries where they studied time? There was that huge glass jar?”

“Luna…” When Luna pleads silently, Ginny nods. “Yeah. It was so pretty, but Harry wouldn't let us stay.”

“Well, he was rather worried about his godfather.”

“Right,” sighs Ginny. “Poor sod.”

Luna isn't certain whether Ginny means Harry or his godfather, but isn't particularly convinced that it matters either way. “There was this dust, do you remember, that glowed in the jar?”

“Yeah, and the little cuckoo.”

“Yes. At the time—well, at the time I simply thought it lovely. Afterwards, I decided that it was simply a physical manifestation of time.” Luna thinks on the almost-music that has been playing more and more loudly in her subliminal hearing since the beginning of the summer. “I think it's more than that though. I think that love, like time, is a metaphysical net, the ocean we all swim in.”

Luna expects this explanation, which she finds rather fascinating, to evoke surprise or doubt or confusion in Ginny, but no—Ginny is nodding, considering, digesting. “And what about sex?” she asks at last, her chin perching on her knees.

“Oh,” Luna says. In the dark below the window as Ginny is, Luna knows that she cannot actually see Ginny's eyes, and yet feels pierced by them nonetheless. She is intrigued that the fluttery feeling that their intellectually and emotionally stimulating conversation has managed to hold mostly at bay has returned so quickly. That she is suddenly more aware of the thin forearms wrapped around the boney knees on the other side of the room than of the hands she continues to press against her heart. “Yes, well, yes. If the old Indian Arithmancers were right, then desire is part of the journey—one of the wheels through which the spirit must pass before reaching, erm, fulfillment. But it's also a kind of very nice trap that distracts from the journey.” Luna wishes that she didn't feel compelled to include that last bit. She is very clear that her own journey has not passed that particular wheel just yet, and she is very interested in exploring it fully; she envies Ginny her experience—though Luna's own research provided a certain amount of the practical spellwork for Ginny and Harry's experimentation. Still— “So. My findings to this point are not the ones that you hoped for. I'm sorry.”

Slowly, Ginny stands, and Luna can feel the noumenal hum in her bones. “Why, Loony? Don't be silly.”

“In any case,” Luna answers, trying not to lose herself in the shadow of the face opposite, “you don't have to tell me why you asked. I couldn't meet your condition.”

Ginny begins to stalk towards Luna's bed, and Luna finds that she could not speak now even if she wished to. Not even for Ginny. “Luna,” she says as she reaches the bed and sits, her hip sliding back into the shaft of light that has moved closer to Luna as they've talked, “I asked because…” She sidles closer, and thought and logic escape Luna entirely. There is nothing but the slashes of shadow that Ginny's hair casts across her face. “This letter of Hermione's is why I asked, okay? That I wanted to know that love is something we just make up?”

Luna manages to nod.

Ginny's hands, which have been moving constantly, come to rest by Luna's knee, poised like lions on the duvet. She is staring down—at them or at Luna's knee? “My brother… has done something… Has done something.” Ginny's fingers begin to pinch at the covers.

“Fidelity.” The sound of the word escaping Lunaa's throat is dry and dusty.

Ginny smiles grimly down at her hands. “Yeah. And not, really. But yeah.”

Luna knows that Ginny is trying to keep Hermione's secrets, and her brother's. But she desperately wishes that she understood. Knowledge is freedom and just now Luna does not know anything at all.

One hand—like a falcon's, if falcons had hands—reaches up. Begins to slide through a strand of Luna's hair. “If love is just… a story, you know, something we believe in because it's just nicer to think it's there, then the fact that I've spent the past few months thinking of kissing you and touching you, that's just fine—it's just sexual attraction like you said and that's fine.”

 _Don't you think it's fine?_ Luna wants to ask, but can't.

“But love is real. I know it. I've always known it. The numbers and nets and things—I haven't really got a clue about all of that. But _love_ …” Ginny's hands drop onto her moonbright thighs. She looks so, so lovely and so, so sad that Luna's heart nearly bursts.

“Love,” says Luna. “Yes.” She smiles, though it is the hardest thing that she has ever done. Scrunching down so that Ginny can see her face, she says, “And it is all right, you know. I understand. You don't love me.”

Ginny's eyes widen in surprise, or possibly revulsion ( _After all, most people find me—_ ). “No,” she grunts.

A weight like a planet compresses Luna now. She feels as if she might be compact enough to fit into a Nargle nest, tiny as they are.

“No,” Ginny repeats, “that's not it at all! How…?” Ginny's hand reaches up to Luna's cheek and strokes it, bearing all of that planetary weight in the palm of one small hand. Remarkable. “Of course I love you, silly! If I didn't, do you think we'd be having this conversation?”

“It seems likely,” Luna says, though she knows this will make Ginny laugh.

It does, though still the laughter is tinged with sadness. “Silly Loony. Of course I love you! You so wonderful and kind and magical…” The other hand comes back up now and cups Luna's chin, lifting it. Ginny's face is bright and terrible. “You've always been my best friend. Always.”

“Oh.” It is all that Luna can think to say.

“Just what you said, Luna, I would die for you, I would… give you anything I had.”

“Even Harry?”

Now the smile shames the moon. The eyes bow smaller, but brighter. “Even Harry. But I don't know that I wouldn't want him back.”

Ginny's fingers, her palms scintillate against Luna's skin, sending sparks of sensation shooting through her. “Oh, I'd give him back to you.”

“Ta,” Ginny says. “When you… do you remember when you kissed me?”

Luna nods. It seems a silly question. And yet, as she considers it, perhaps not so silly, since in point of fact Luna was barely conscious at the time. She remembers Ginny's expression.

“I… It was such a shock—I hadn't ever thought…” Ginny's thumb slides over Luna's lower lip, which for some reason causes a frisson in Luna's lower back. Odd. “I'd never kissed a girl, never thought of kissing another girl. And all of a sudden, in the midst of all the _Harry, Harry, blah, blah_ , I kept thinking of that, of you.”

“We could kiss again, you know.” Luna's lips flutter over Ginny's thumbpad. “I would like that a great deal.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, but she does not move closer.

Luna looks into her friend's eyes; bright as they are, they are still guarded. “Is there a Wrackspurt? You look as if you might have been affected by a Wrackspurt.”

“No,” Ginny answers. “Look, Luna, I've been spending all of this time with you—especially the past month—and it's been hard not to think about how wonderful you are, and how nice it would be to snog, and cuddle, and maybe even figure out how sex works with two girls—”

“I've read some very interesting—”

“Yeah, I bet you have, but see, I can't. We can't.” Ginny's fingers curl around Luna's cheeks and then release.

 **Observations** : Ginny Weasley's fingers flow across Luna Lovegood's skin like foxglove blossoms. Ginny Weasley's face glows in the moonlight reflected from Luna Lovegood's own skin, but her eyes are dark. Ginny Weasley has fifteen clearly visible freckles across the top of her left cheek; her right cheek, which is somewhat more obscured, nonetheless has at least six that are clearly visible. Although diminutive in almost every dimension, Ginny Weasley has a neck that is relatively long and rather sensuous. (Not sensual. Or perhaps not sensual. Or, rather, likely to be quite sensual, given Ginny Weasley's nature—as observed over many years—but not proven to be so through direct observation. Not yet proven to be so.) A battered Muggle book that Luna Lovegood discovered somewhat by accident early in the summer in the back section of the tiny Ottery St Catchpole public library entitled _The Joy of Lesbian Sex_ (E. L. Sisley and B. Harris. Crown, 1977) recommended a rather intriguing, gentle form of embrace that it called a _demitasse_ ; Ginny Weasley is up on her knees, legs slightly parted, and Luna Lovegood is considering the possibility of exploring this particular—

“Luna,” Ginny says—perhaps she has been saying for some time—“I can't. I can't.”

“Can't?”

Ginny lets out a hoarse laugh—it has always struck Luna as remarkable that someone as small as Ginny could be so strong and could have a voice pitched so low. Perhaps it is because she was raised around so many brothers. “I can't, Luna. I can't. I…” Her hand lifts and then drops again. “I came over here thinking, you know, that it would be nice. That we could. Like I said. But I can't. We can't.”

“Oh,” Luna says, because there isn't much else that she can think to say. “Is it because I'm odd? I am rather odd, you know.”

“No,” Ginny says, her voice even as it only gets when she is trying to exercise restraint. “I told you. I love you. I love the way you are. You're wonderful.”

Cocking her head, Luna asks, “Is it because I'm a girl? I should have thought of that earlier, I suppose.”

“No.” Ginny's mouth is pursed tight in a fashion that, unfortunately, strikes Luna as rather kissable. “ Definitely not. Well, I still don't know what it means. It's not like I've ever found a girl sexy before—”

“You… find me… sexy?” Luna has considered many possibilities to explain the rather peculiar new tension between herself and her friend over the past months. One of the books in the library talked about _projection_ , and this struck Luna as likely, since it was certain that Luna herself found Ginny quite sexually exciting; she found Harry exciting too, of course, and the idea of the two of them—

“Yeah. Dead sexy.” Ginny's skin is darkening from her cheeks down her neck; even the exposed flesh of her thighs seems to have colored. She is blushing. Luna has made Ginny blush. Not from embarrassment.

“Oh.” **Observations:** “Is it one of Harry's noble and stupid things that you talked about? The reason why you can't?”

Ginny blinks. The color has evened out—but she is still clearly blushing, showing numerous secondary signs of— “I guess. Yes. Two stupid and noble reasons.”

“You're not planning on going after Voldemort yourself, are you?”

“No,” Ginny answers with a grim smirk. “No, much as I'd like to, I promised Harry I wouldn't. And that… That's the first reason.”

“Harry?” Luna tries to think what Harry might have to do with this. “Did Hermione say something about him in her letter?”

“No!” This comes out as a bark of a laugh. “No, of course not—she never does. But the mess with my brother—Ron played the prat again, and it's not really as if he'd promised anyone otherwise, but it's still a mess, and now he's trying to make it better, and Hermione is in love with him, Merlin knows why, so even if she's ready to kill him, she can't because he's trying, and it's going to kill the two of them…”

“Ginny, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Sighing in frustration, Ginny leans over and snatches up the letter. After looking down at it for a moment, she says. “I promised Harry that I would wait for him. I promised, and I meant it, and I mean it. And it feels like I'd be breaking that promise if I gave you… everything that I've promised him.” Ginny shakes her head. “He'd probably tell me I was being silly, that all I ever promised him was that I'd try to keep myself safe—we never _forswore all others_ or anything like that—”

Luna leans forward, “Then—?”

“No,” Ginny says gently. “No. I know myself. With Michael and with Dean I tried to be with them, even though a part of me was still in love with Harry. And I could. But it wasn't… very fair.” She smiles. “I know. I'm the silly one. Stupid and noble, like you said. Because that's the second bit, Loony. I can't stand the idea that you'd get hurt, or that you'd be—that I'd be with you, but when Harry gets back—”

“I wouldn't mind.”

“I know, but _I_ would. I know it would hurt you.” Ginny's hand rises and then pulls back. “I know it would, because I spent a long time loving someone who couldn't love me back fully. And either way, Luna, I'll feel like I've done something awful to someone I really love—you or Harry—and I can't, Luna. I can't.”

“Oh.” Luna looks at her beloved, at her friend, at the object of her desire and admiration—at the clarity of the lines of her face, etched by the moonlight, and the nimbus of her wild hair. “Ginny, may I share some thoughts on the subject?”

This time the chuckle that Ginny gives is the lovely, rumbling one that has always delighted Luna. “Silly” is all that she says, but the pained, pinched look on her face eases somewhat.

Arranging herself carefully, with her legs beneath her and her hands in her lap—she does not wish to distract herself or Ginny at the moment—she lays out her reasoning. “Here are some observations that I think that we can both agree on: First, Luna Lovegood feels a complex set of emotions for Ginny Weasley ranging from deep admiration for her mind, body and spirit to strong sexual attraction and a very protective impulse; these emotions and urges I think we've agreed to call _love_ , haven't we?”

Ginny shrugs somewhat shyly. “Sure.”

Nodding, Luna continues. “Luna Lovegood experiences many of these same feelings and impulses towards Harry Potter, though she has not had the opportunity to explore them as fully. Harry Potter shows very strong evidence of feeling towards Ginny Weasley very much as Luna Lovegood does; his feelings towards Luna Lovegood are rather less clear.”

“Uh—”

Luna tilts her head as she has seen Professor—Headmistress McGonagall do so often, and Ginny snaps her lips shut. “Ginny Weasley seems to feel this thing we are calling _love_ for Harry Potter, as well, perhaps, as for Luna Lovegood.”

Again Ginny begins to interrupt.

Again, Luna silences her. “Now, there are a number of other observations that we could make—your feeling of obligation to Harry and to me. Ronald's… Mess? Is that what you called it?”

Ginny nods.

“But I think that we have enough data to begin with.” Luna spreads her hands on the duvet. “There are some hypotheses that we could test. The first is that love is, in fact, as I posited earlier this year, an imaginary construct, but we've decided that that hypothesis doesn't work. Another is that the thing that you and Harry clearly feel for each other is fundamentally different from what you and I feel. I cannot tell if that is true or not; you will need to help me—”

Apparently, Ginny helps. Her face and hair suddenly fill Luna's vision and they are kissing.

Luna is fairly certain that she did not lean toward her friend, and therefore is left with the rather peculiar but inescapable inference that Ginny herself is the one initiating the kissing. What is interesting too is that, in contrast to her first experience kissing Ginny, but similar to her kiss with Harry—though not the snogging away—she has managed to keep some consciousness of the sensations passing through her: heat, expansion, a rather remarkable sensation of edgelessness at fascinating contrast with the very distinct awareness of the diaphane between Ginny's tongue and her own, between Ginny's fingers and Luna's cheeks, between Ginny's small, worn-cotton-clad breasts and her own.

Four.

Three.

Ginny backs away from Luna, her color once again high and mottled.

“I thought you said we couldn't,” burbles Luna.

“It was the only way I could think to get the flood to slow down,” Ginny says. “Is that what the inside of your head sounds like?”

“Yes, quite often,” answers Luna, the moisture of Ginny's kisses still cool upon her lips. “Usually it is rather clearer, of course, only you seem to have the ability to affect me rather like a Wrackspurt from time to time. That was a very nice snog. May we do that again?”

“Not now, I think,” Ginny answers, looking annoyed with herself. “I'm sorry, that was stupid of me.”

“No, I didn't mind. It was quite lovely.” Four. Lips. Three.

“Yeah, but…” Ginny's smile is lovely and small, but her brows are furrowed.

“I know you are going to say that you are a Bad Girl and Not Nice, and that you are hurting me somehow, but honestly, taken altogether, I think that this is the nicest night of my life.”

“You do?” asks Ginny, her face twisting quizzically.

“Oh, yes. The snogging away is very nice, I must say, and this time I think that I will actually be able to remember it—I think that that was the one thing that I regretted about snogging away with Harry, other than the fact, of course, that your feelings were hurt.”

“My…? What?”

“Yes, of course, I have almost no memory of kissing him, you see.” Luna is aware that, where she was feeling just a little while ago that she could not breathe properly, now she is drowning in air. “It seems a great shame, since I think it unlikely that you or he will ever want to snog away with me again.”

“ _Luna_ …” Ginny's voice is pinched and she has the same _That's awful!_ expression that she wore the day that Luna told her about the Ravenclaw girls taking her things.

“You're not hurting me, you know. Even if you never kiss me again or touch me again, I will be happy because you said that you love me, you see.” Strangely, Luna feels a tear dribbling along one eyelid. She does not cry often, not even a little. “I think that's very nice. And I am very happy that you and Harry have each other. It would be all right with me if you were to stay together and get married and have a family, and I could help—”

Ginny stops Luna's mouth again; this time it is gently, with her fingers. “I love you, you Loony, you,” she says lowering her fingers.

“And I love you, too.”

Ginny gets a more typical smile on—a little sideways and promising surprises. “That day that you and Harry snogged?”

“I do feel badly—”

“Shush.” The sideways smile twists and grows. “That night, when Harry… When Harry and I were, you know, having sex,” she continues, the blush returning, “he was really, really _energetic._ It was… wild. After, I asked him what he was thinking of, what got him so, you know, inspired. He said… He got all shy, the way he does. He said he was thinking of you and me kissing. That was what got him all excited.”

“Oh,” says Luna, trying to consider this while simultaneously accepting the image Ginny and Harry having very energetic sex. It wasn't easy. “Perhaps we can ask him if he would like to see it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Or if he would like to join us?”

The smile is broad now and bright. “Yeah. Perhaps.” She reaches out and takes Luna's hand. “When he gets back we can ask, okay? Do you mind?”

“Oh, certainly,” Luna says, and that is that. Three. Two. One.

***

She does, however, find it very difficult to sleep that night, however, for two reasons. First, Ginny is so close by and, in spite of her own protestations to the contrary, Luna finds it extremely difficult not to reach out and caress her. Too, the image of Harry and Ginny having sex while thinking of _her_ has left Luna more than usually in need of a nighttime ritual that she did not think that Ginny would appreciate her indulging in. And so she twitches and moves around under the covers, trying to find stillness.

“Luna,” sighs Ginny, disturbed from her own slumber.

“I'm sorry.”

“Thinking?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about?”

“About you and Harry having sex. And about kissing you in front of him. And wondering what it was like to kiss him because it seems as if it must have been rather nice.”

“It was. You both looked very pleased.”

“Oh. Good.”

Luna hears an amused sigh, feels her smaller friend move closer beside her. The hairs on Luna's arms tingle the way that they do when she sees a crescent moon. “Luna. Kissing Harry… He's not that tall, but there's something the way he touches you that makes you feel as if he's a giant, and he's got you cupped in his hand.”

“Oh.”

“His lips are thin at the sides, but bowed in the middle, and so you feel like he's kissing you one atom at a time.”

“Oh.”

“When we first started snogging, he didn't know what to do with his tongue, but Merlin…” Ginny shivers; the tremor passes through Luna as well. “It's very long and _tight,_ like the rest of him, and he likes to run it along your earlobe—I think he did that with you that day.”

“Oh.”

“His skin is… lovely, and smooth, just little bits of hair on his chest and below his bellybutton. And when it's late, his chin gets rough, and you'd think that would be grotty, but it's not, it's so _nice…_ ”

“Mmm…” Luna isn't certain that this is helping in any way, but she doesn't want Ginny to stop. “I think… I think I remember. His chin.”

“Mmm.” Luna can feel Ginny's breath against her ear. “His cock is about as long as my hand from the palm to the finger tips, and it's not terribly thick, but straight… And so _hard_.”

Luna cannot stop herself. She simply cannot.

“The head is long and tapered, and when he's really excited, it gets dark, dark red, so that it looks like the ripest plum you've ever seen, and you just want to reach out and nibble and lick.”

Touching herself, Luna shudders. She hopes that Ginny does not mind. She suspects that she does not.

“When he fucks you, it feels as if the sun is in your cunt, you feel so hot and full, and powerful.”

“Oh.”

“His fingers never stop moving while he's fucking you, stroking your nipples, your arse, reaching around with those long fingers under your bum and stroking your pussy while his cock plows into you.”

“Ah.”

“And then he turns you on your hands and knees and he fucks you from behind, and his hips are slapping up against your arse and he's squeezing your breasts, leaning down and biting your neck.”

“ _Ah…_ ”

Whispering, her mouth so close to Luna's ear that it sounds like a shout even so, Ginny says, “And I'm there beneath you. My mouth is on your clit, licking while he fucks you, sucking you into my mouth while his cock spreads you wider and wider, hotter and hotter, and my fingers—”

Luna never does find out what Ginny's fingers do, because the sun within her has exploded, and Luna is the light. One, two, three.

***

> _Hullo, Harry._
> 
> _Hermione sent a letter to Ginny that has got her spluttering and muttering like an overfilled kettle. She says that Ronald has made a mess, but won't tell me whether any of his clothes were ruined. I know that the Weasleys are all always careful about their clothes because their mother works so hard to make them last._
> 
> _Ginny and I have been talking, which is always pleasant, and we've realized that there is something that we know about that you might find rather useful. It is about how my mother died, and about that awful diary._
> 
> _The summer after you brought Ginny up from the Chamber of Secrets, she and I talked a lot, since she didn't have very many people to talk to. She told me about that diary of The-Person-Who-Most-People-Don't-Really-Know and how it had had a piece of his soul in it, and how you had killed it. That made me think of my mother, you see, because she died trying to destroy a very similar object—a lovely chalice that had been found in an old ruined orphanage in London. Muggles kept going in there, trying to tear it down, but they kept dying, and so the Ministry decided to send my mother in—she was a Curse Breaker, you see._
> 
> _Well, this chalice was there. And it was something you've probably never heard of called a Horcrux. It's sort of like vacuum bottle for a piece of your soul that will keep it safe, only it's terribly Dark magic, and if it's intact, it means that the person whose soul is in there can't die normally._
> 
> _Now, I know you're thinking this is silly, everyone dies, but my mother thought that this chalice was a Horcrux for Voldemort because of some of the other things she found at the orphanage, and that that was why he didn't die when the curse he tried to kill you with rebounded on him—he would have left his body there, you see, if he had._
> 
> _And so she took the chalice and brought it back to her laboratory at our house and was trying out all sorts of counter-curses on it to destroy it so that Voldemort would be mortal again, and then she died. It was rather awful. Though it is the reason that I can see the Thestrals, and I think that's rather nice._
> 
> _Then when Ginny started talking about the diary, I thought, Could he have made two Horcruces? And as we talked about it, we agreed that he probably did._
> 
> _Lately, though, I've been thinking—why would he stop at two? He is a very nasty person, and Dark magic doesn't seem to bother him much, and so perhaps he made more? Three, perhaps? Or four? Three, you see, is the basic metaphysical number, representing the transcendence of duality—_ a _, not-_ a _,_ a _-plus-not-_ a _; past, present and future; self, other, union; father, mother, child—while four represents bounded temporal reality—the four cardinal directions, the four elements, the four tails of the Bogwoppet._
> 
> _The most powerful number is seven. Twelve is very powerful too. Three and four combine in quite wonderful ways—objective reality and metareality intersecting, but no one finds that terribly interesting, do they?_
> 
> _So I believe that, in addition to the two that you and my mother destroyed, Voldemort may have either five more Horcruces hidden about or more likely four—the bit he has to keep inside of his body making seven, you see._
> 
> _So whatever it is that you and Hermione and Ronald are doing—and Ginny was rather annoyed that Ronald made a mess—I thought perhaps that you might want to know that you should destroy the other four or five Horcruces if you can._
> 
> _I hope that you are having a lovely time._
> 
> _By the way, did you realize that Ginny was born exactly twelve months and twelve days after you?_
> 
> _I have been thinking about that bell jar in the Department of Mysteries, about the glow that it gave off, which was just like the sparkly stuff in all of the Time Turners. It seems to me that it can't just be some sort of_ time _thing, that time is rather elemental and that everything relates to time. And so I've been thinking about threes—the metaphysical connection between discrete objects or people or moments. It is a very interesting subject, and it bears rather heavily on the research that I have been doing since our train ride back from Hogwarts._
> 
> _DA meetings have been lovely, though not quite as well attended as before. Ginny thinks that this has something to do with what she calls the Romilda Vane Syndrome, which I've never heard of. I told her that there has been a somewhat awful strain of Fignose Fever going about, and perhaps people are worried about infection._
> 
> _I think too that some of the parents were a bit alarmed that we were involved in a battle after the wedding, and also that a few of us were asked to help get rid of Dementors in London._
> 
> _My Patronus has changed, by the way. It is now a rather lovely hare. Hares are closely connected with the moon, with transformation and with fertility. I will miss my Thestral, however._
> 
> _Ginny's, which was as you know a unicorn and rather sweet, has changed as well. It is now a phoenix, which I thought quite appropriate. The phoenix too is a symbol of transformation and closely associated with the sun._
> 
> _The Dementors were rather frightened of her._
> 
> _I asked Ginny what caused hers to change and she just got the smile that she always seems to get when she is thinking of you._
> 
> _I know why mine changed. My happy thought, which used to be about my mother, is now about that afternoon that I spent with you and Ginny in her room. I was very, very happy then. In fact, on the whole, though things are rather frightening, I am still quite happy._
> 
> _My birthday, by the way, is exactly seven weeks before yours. Ginny pointed out to me that that means that she was born exactly seven weeks and twelve days after I was. I'm not certain what that means, but I am sure that it means something interesting._
> 
> _Parvati and Padma Patil are fighting, which is rather unusual. Eri Nott, who is still coming with her brother, told me that the Patils disagree about Pansy Parkinson. That doesn't surprise me, since Pansy seems a rather disagreeable girl, and rather difficult to understand. Padma and Parvati have lost their father, and Pansy's father is supposed to have been the reason. Even so, I am not sure that I see what there is to disagree about. Ginny tells me that it is a sibling thing, and Eri agreed with this, and so I will have to defer to their greater experience._
> 
> _I find it interesting that three girls who have so little in common all come from the same village in Buckinghamshire and all have the same initials._
> 
> _Bilius and Fleur Weasley have both gone back to work at Gringotts. I was sad that they weren't teaching any more, but am glad that grief no longer mires them. Grief is a very tedious business, as you know. Fleur still does not glow as she used to. Gabrielle told us that she still cries a lot, which I understand, though I know that it must be rather boring._
> 
> _Gabrielle also told Eri that she hates Ginny._
> 
> _I find this odd. Eri and Ginny have both tried to explain it to me, but I'm afraid that I still do not understand it. Ginny says that she's just young, and Eri says that it is envy, but it still strikes me as peculiar._
> 
> _Ginny said that you told her that you found it exciting when we told you that we had kissed. Well, I am glad. We kissed again last night and it was very lovely, only Ginny feels rather badly because she promised you that she would wait for you and she doesn't want to hurt you and she thinks that kissing me when she is in love with you will hurt me. This too strikes me as rather odd, but Ginny is very thoughtful and insightful and so perhaps she understands something that I do not. I have observed that you seem to take the same delight in nice things that I do, and so I have hypothesized that you probably feel as I do that there is never too much good in the world. Well, how can kissing Ginny not be good? Do you think that that hypothesis needs to be tested, or can we accept it as given?_
> 
> _This kiss was much more pleasant than the first one, as I can actually remember it. Also, she did something very interesting with her tongue._
> 
> _I hope that that was exciting for you._
> 
> _I won't kiss Ginny any more, however, because she_ doesn't want to hurt us _, and because she says that_ kissing other people would not be fair to you _and I do not wish to be unfair to you at all. But if you_ don't _mind, and you_ don't _think that it is unfair, please do tell me and I can let her know._
> 
> _Also, because I was having a rather difficult time getting to sleep, she told me a rather lovely make-believe story about the three of us having sex together. Perhaps we can discuss that when we see you again._
> 
> _My father had me write another article for_ The Quibbler _, this one about the Dementors in London and how the Ministry failed to act. It was awful—the whole city was in deep mourning and had no idea why._
> 
> _Charlie Weasley felt rather badly that he let the six Dementors past him, but Ginny told him that England would have been the most depressed nation on the face of the earth if it weren't for him and Norbert. Charlie found this amusing and said Bulgarians don't need Dementors for that. I know that was meant to be funny, but I'm not sure why. (Who is Norbert, by the way? Ginny won't tell me, though I gather that he is one of Professor Hagrid's friends.)_
> 
> _Oh. Dear. I seem to have come to my last sheet of parchment without mentioning the second most compelling reason for writing you. I would like to present my preliminary findings concerning the question that we discussed on the train ride back after the headmaster's funeral._
> 
> _Through direct observation, experimentation and research, I have compiled what I think is a fairly large sample of data. Did you know that there is a whole bureau in the Department of Mysteries that deals with this question? I am quite excited by this, and rather disappointed that we weren't able see it while we were there two years ago. Or perhaps we did and they Obliviated us._
> 
> _In any case, I documented a number of instances of people (including several non- and demi-humans) behaving in a fashion that cannot be justified as pertaining to personal or species survival, or even to the pleasure or power principles. Your attempt to distance yourself from Ginny was one such datum—it was very sweet but utterly illogical, and yet it was the first bit of data that gave me what I thought was my strongest hypothesis to explain this pattern of behavior—that and the bell jar in the room with all of the Time Turners that we saw at the Ministry. It was full of the same glowy stuff as the Time Turners, and it._
> 
> _I wish that I had more room, but I will have to give you the full report in my next letter._
> 
> _My hypothesis is that Time, Love and Magic (among other things) are metaphors that we use to describe that metaphysical function that I talked about above, the thing that is implicit in the number three—that they all represent images of a force that binds all of us together in ways that are quite wonderful and unforeseen._
> 
> _Since it cannot be observed directly, I have been forced to infer that this force is evident in all things and binds all things, but does not connect them all equally—or perhaps does, but we are not equally aware of each of these threads of connection. That this thread, as we become aware of it, changes who we are and how we behave, not only toward the person or object at the other side of the thread, but toward the rest of the universe._
> 
> _The old texts have many words for this thread, but I think that_ love _works as well as any, don't you?_
> 
> _The old Vedic Arithmancers talked about each being's spirit progressing as it grew and gained understanding up from the bottom of the bum to the top of the skull, through a set of seven millwheels along the spine. (There's that number again—seven.) The bottom three wheels are involved in the lovely if occasionally dreary business of survival and pleasure and power. The upper three mirror those, only they are all about the spirit finding union with, I suppose,_ everything _. Which is rather terrifying, I think, but also rather nice._
> 
> _Why I am telling you this, you see, is that between the two sets is a third. It is the wheel set at the level of the heart—it is the level at which we become aware of that net of threads connecting us to, as I said, everything. The heart is the door at which the body meets the soul. It is the fourth in each group of wheels, and it is also its own group, the third group._
> 
> _Once I became aware of this, I could not stop thinking of you and of Ginny, and the way in which the two of you are bound like beautiful gems on a necklace, or bulbs of garlic on a garlic dolly. Watching you together this summer really was quite beautiful._
> 
> _I have come to the conclusion, then, that love is real._
> 
> _Ginny loves you very much._
> 
> _And so do I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art is adapted from Glockgal, “Harry/Luna EXPLICIT” — used with permission.


	32. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, what we run away from brings us just where we would have wanted to go, if we had only known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last bit of relative peace before the storm breaks...
> 
> Warnings: Mostly gen with some Anthony/Daphne, Hermione/Ron, Pansy/Ron, Harry/Ginny and (very subtle) Harry/Ginny/Luna overtones. Teddy Nott and the Revenge of the Second Person!
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for lots of things, not least loving Teddy as I have come to do.

Silently, Harry hands her the sealed letter and then stuffs his hands into his pockets. Hermione puts it in her robes with the other note and glances over at Ron, who is peering quizzically at their friend. “So, no more letters for your other girlfriends, gentlemen?” she asks, and then immediately regrets it.

Harry goes chalk white, trumping Ron’s flush—she meant it as a gentle tease at Harry, who has been acting quite odd and sweetly besotted, especially for the past week or so; she forgot—astonishingly—the pet dragon that she and Ron seem constantly to be tiptoeing about, and so his hurt, guilty blush twists her heart.

“Uh, not today,” Harry manages to say.

“Yeah,” Ron says, faking something like his normal humor, “ran out of parchment yesterday anyway. Could you get us some, Hermione, luv?”

“Certainly, love,” she says, looking him straight in the eye, hoping that he can see what she _meant_ ….

He smiles solemnly and nods.

“Hermione,” Harry says, some color returning to his face, “make sure that they all understand—this isn’t a lark. There could be trouble and we can’t promise—”

“I will, Harry.” Hermione reaches out and touches his shoulder. “She can’t Apparate yet. It’s not going to be a problem.”

“No,” he mumbles, and looks down, his hands still in his pockets.

“When you talk to Charlie,” Ron adds—for the fourth time—“make sure he understands—”

“That what we’re asking him to do is risky, of course I will,” she says. “ _You_ can go,you know,” she adds.

“No,” both boys say. Ron adds, “It’s good that it comes from you. Besides, McGonagall is much more likely to try to talk you out of the whole dragon thing than she is Harry and me; she’s used to us pulling things, so she’s less likely to balk.”

“You know, Ron,” she says, “a year ago I would have thought you were mad, but honestly, I think you’re brilliant.” Leaning quickly forward, she kisses him.

He tastes of this morning’s bacon, and his jumper gives off a scent of cedar and a thousand wonderful meals.

Somehow, every time they kiss, it is a surprise to both of them. Not the kiss, but the way that the kiss takes on a life of its own, enveloping them, molding them. As if the kiss is the actor and they merely props.

When they step back from each other, Harry is smirking at them, and Hermione can feel herself blush.

“Sorry,” Ron says to Harry. Or perhaps to Hermione.

“No problem,” Harry says with a small smile. He looks over at Hermione, and the smile freezes. “Hermione, I… Could you…?”

“Do you want me to tell her anything?”

He shakes his head. “No. No. Just… give Luna the letter.”

Hermione smiles, touches them each lightly, and leaves their room. It is the room in which Professor Dumbledore interviewed Professor Trelawney all those years ago; there is something oddly comforting about the idea that they are staying in the very room where Harry’s fate began marching forward.

It is odd to think that she—and Ron and Harry—have seen Professor Snape’s memory of that evening in Professor Dumbledore’s Pensieve, but that therefore Professor Snape himself has no memory of it—no memory of the last bit of the prophecy, no memory of the conversation—the interrogation—that the brothers Dumbledore subjected the young potions master to, nor any memory of the Unbreakable Vows that Snape willingly undertook first in that room, then in the smoking ruins the Potters’ home, and finally with Mrs. Malfoy—vows that penned him in so irrevocably that Hermione almost felt sorry for her former teacher.

Well, she actually _did_ feel sorry for him—even if he was a rather horrid man.

Hermione flips up the hood to her cloak and pads down the creaky stairs.

“Going out?” asks the barmaid, sweeping the never-clean floor.

“Yes, thank you, Aadi,” Hermione answers. “My companions will be going out in a bit as well.”

The young woman nods cagily but doesn’t ask whether they would be returning; the room might be empty but there is never any point in announcing one’s schedule, Hermione supposes. The walls might literally have ears, Extendable or otherwise.

Stepping out into the Hogsmeade drizzle, she draws her cloak around her, looks about to make certain that no one was paying too much attention—no one seems to be paying any at all—and takes the first of several long Apparitions towards the Burrow.

  
  


***

  
  


“Well done!” says Goldstein, looking quite pleased.

You rub your head, rub your arse, and then take his proffered hand. “You still Stunned me.”

“But only because I’d worked on the Mirror Shield all summer and you didn’t have the opportunity! Really, your dueling has come a long way!” His mild brown eyes seem to be doing an inventory of your limbs even as he smiles his caterpillar-mustache smile at you.

You grunt something that he can choose to take as thanks.

In honesty, you _are_ pleased with his praise, and annoyed to be pleased.

There are fifty or so DA members practicing in and around the Weasleys’ decrepit paddock under Professor Lupin’s wolfen gaze. Not as many as when you first arrived, but a remarkable sight nonetheless.

Eri is trading basic jinxes with Ginny Weasley; the redhead’s praise for your sister too is effusive, but you can see why. At thirteen, Eri shows more poise than half of the older students. You take pride in this too, and feel no shame in doing so. Turning toward your partner you start to point out your sister’s prowess, but a twinge shoots through your head again, and you wince.

“Come on, Nott,” says Goldstein, “we’ve earned a breather, I think.” Hand lightly on your shoulder, he walks you over to the makeshift rest station and conjures each of you a cold butterbeer.

Nice trick, that.

You sit on the bench that has been set at the base of a rather perfect specimen of ash, where you can sip your butterbeer and watch others try to kill each other for a change.

Goldstein sits beside you.

Six months ago you would have been offended.

Six months ago, he wouldn’t have bothered.

As the fug clears from your head, you sit there, looking out at the mass of DA members attacking and defending in turn, and feel an odd sense of contentment.

“So,” says Goldstein after a time, “see anything you like?”

Your antenna buzz and the contentment vanishes; he’s having something on. Without taking your eyes off of Weasley and your sister, you answer, shifting into your most toneless, neutral voice. “What?”

“Some nice birds in this crowd, after all,” he says very casually, as if you two are in the habit of discussing girls and such things on a regular basis.

You have a fairly good idea where this is headed now, but there is no pleasure in simply answering the question he’s _really_ asking. “I suppose.”

He peers out at the still-sparring mob. “The Patils are gorgeous.”

“ _Too_ pretty.”

“Oh.” You look over. He bites his upper lip, causing the thin mustache to bristle like an angry toothbrush. “And Ginny Weasley—”

Yes, Ginny Weasley. She is laughing with Eri as they trade jinxes. You had to listen to Blaise going on about her for months at the end of fifth year. And then of course Pansy teasing him and Draco too mercilessly with her name. “Too short.”

Goldstein nods. “Yeah, I guess. Susan Bones?”

“Too tall.” And she’s been hermetically sealed to Longbottom for months.

He’s warming up now. “Cho Chang?”

“Shorter than Weasley.” And even more emotional, if that were possible.

“Right.” He cocks his head. “What about Luna Lovegood?”

“Too…” The fact of the matter is that you do rather like Luna. Not romantically or sexually, Merlin, no, but… But Eri likes her. “Skinny.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He grunts. “Thought you were going to say ‘Too odd.’ And she’s not, really.”

She is, really. But that doesn’t matter. “No.”

“Right. Well…” He makes a show of looking around, but if you looked out into the paddock, you would wager you would know who he is looking at. “Older women? What about Hestia Jones?” He gestures towards where she is standing quietly: the other Order member who is working with the DA today.

“Too sad.”

“Yeah.” He nods thoughtfully. “Terry reckons she’s probably another like Professor Lupin. You know…” He lowers his voice significantly. “A _werewolf._ ”

“Ah.”

“But very pretty, even if she does always wear high collars.” Lowering his voice again, he adds, “It’s funny, with her face, she looks like she should be laughing, you know?”

“Yes.” Yes, indeed. She looks like someone who has watched laughter dissipate like the morning dew.

“Well…”

This is losing its entertainment value. “Daphne’s not my girlfriend, Goldstein.”

“Oh.” Goldstein looks down at his feet and then at you. “Great. I mean, not that… She’s just very…”

“Vivacious.”

“Er. Yes. Precisely.”

“Flirtatious.”

“Um… Yeah.” Suddenly, Goldstein looks a lot less comfortable.

“Tenacious.”

“Oh.” He frowns at you and then shakes his head, smiling pensively. “Yes. I suppose so. I guess… I was worried you were going to say, I don’t know… _curvaceous_ or something.”

In spite of yourself, you smile. “Ah.” You are not being strictly honest with him—well, in point of fact you are being _very_ strictly, precisely honest. She is not your girlfriend. Nor has she ever been. There was, however, a stretch of time during third and fourth year when Daphne, frustrated in her never-ending pursuit of Blaise the Black Adonis, started dragging you into deserted classrooms and behind tapestries for what she called _mutual lessons in comparative anatomy._ You are far more familiar with Daphne’s curves than you have given Goldstein reason to believe. There is no point in kicking up a nest of Pixies if it isn’t necessary, however.

You’ve always wondered why she stopped. You weren’t exactly sorry when she did—it was always a rather uncentering experience—but it was generally pleasant. And a nice distraction. You do know why she chose you, however: _You’ll never say a word, will you, Beddy Teddy?_

Of course not.

“Daphne…” Goldstein seems to be struggling to say something apposite and Ravenclawish, but you can see that the dark intelligence that usually makes his mild gaze so arresting is melting at the sight of Greengrass’s bouncing bounty. “Greengrass.”

“Daphne Greengrass,” you concur.

He runs a knuckle over his mouth.

“There’s more there than she likes to pretend,” you say, uncertain why you are encouraging him; he’s certainly pleasant enough, and Daphne, of course, has done you more than one good turn over the years, lessons in comparative anatomy and the entrée into the DA not the least of them. And it is becoming quite boring watching him and Daphne circle, approach, and withdraw like a pair of carnivores uncertain whether they’re hunting each other or mating, and if it’s the former, which of them will take which role.

They are, however, the only people aside from Eri and the Mad Lovegood who actually talk with you on a regular basis. And if they start snogging—or worse, if they end up fighting—you will lose what little contact you have with the outside world.

It is stupid of you, perhaps, but you are surprised to find that you rather enjoy not being lonely.

“So,” Goldstein says, peering at you rather too cagily, “what sort of bird _do_ you like, Teddy?”

“I’ve no idea,” you say, quite honestly. You look out at the assembled students again, at the variety of shapes and colors and sizes that they present, not to mention the assorted temperaments, talents and bloodlines. There are perhaps thirty girls here, and while you are certainly aware of their charms, you can’t remember thinking anything vaguely amorous about any of them. “Haven’t met her.”

“Yet,” Anthony adds, and then shifts his head slightly and peers at you. “Or _him_?”

You blink at him. There was a possibility that had never occurred to you. “No. No, I… I don’t think that’s it.”

“Ah.” He nods apologetically, smiling. “ _Man delights not me—no, nor women neither_?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Ah.”

Anthony takes a long drink from his butterbeer and you do the same, and both of you look back out at the paddock. He is doubtless watching Daphne—or one of the other girls, possibly, all as he said lovely—but you find your gaze wandering up to the September sky, pondering just when it was that your world shrank from the normal world of boys and girls to just yourself and your sister.

And you remember a long afternoon wandering around the Malfoys’ garden. It is the last time that you can bring to mind that you _chatted_ , though in that case it was all about Draco pointing out all of his family’s wealth and power,

And a tawny owl flittering out of the unseasonably grey sky, bearing the news of your mother’s death.

  
  


***

  
  


As Hermione unsqueezes herself into the familiar country lane, she breathes a sigh of relief. Not only are the long hops finished, but the weather here in Devon is much nicer than the drizzle that followed her most of the way down. She sets off for the Burrow.

It is somewhat humbling to think that in his very first solo Apparation Harry took Professor Dumbledore Side-Along from the Kentish coast all of the way up to Scotland in one jump. Hermione wonders more than occasionally whether she should make more of an effort to get Harry to know his own strength, but every time she has ever tried to, he has shrugged it off, and she has learned that there are some kinds of truth that he cannot hear from her. From Luna perhaps. Or Ginny, who can batter him over the head with the truth and he will welcome it.

Ron. ( _Your other girlfriends…?_ )

He has been _scrupulously_ honest with her since her birthday, and yet she cannot help wondering whether he is thinking of others when he is kissing her. Making love to her. ( _Lifting her on the wings…_ ) Lavender. Pansy.

For a monogamous couple their bed is terribly crowded.

Ron, of course, has been very vocal about how wonderful and beautiful and sexy and… Well, he has complimented her attributes and abilities quite fully. ( _Too much?_ )

( _Sweat from nose to nose…_ ) It has struck Hermione over the past week or so that love is the removal of the membrane between two fluid creatures that allows the liquids within to merge…

The clamor of the DA’s practice snaps her out of her reverie.

They are in the middle of drills, and so Hermione decides to reverse the order in which intended to approach things. Professor Lupin waves and then returns his attention to his charges, giving direction as he circles the paddock. Casting her Patronus ( _Otter. The Otter?_ ), she summons Luna from the midst of the crowd, knowing that Ginny will probably follow soon enough.

When Luna wafts out of the battling DA and over the paddock fence, she wears her usual vague smile and distant gaze. “Hullo, Hermione. It’s nice to see you.”

“You too, Luna.” In fact, it is. In spite of everything, Hermione is finding that she rather _likes_ Luna, her ridiculous beliefs and astonishing demeanor notwithstanding. “I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what you said on the train, about love.”

“Ah.” The almost-smile intensifies infinitesimally. “So have I. Is that why you wanted to talk to me? Because I wrote Harry—”

“Yes, well, I do want to talk to you about your letter, but not that bit—whatever it was you and Ginny had to say on the subject of love, Harry won’t share with us, and he turns red every time I mention it.”

“Oh. Perhaps later then.” Luna seems to be watching a cloud over Hermione’s head. “Is it about the Hor—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermione whispers quickly—even here it’s not a word that they want to have bandied about; if Voldemort finds out… “We, uh, we knew about them, you see. They’re what we’ve been looking for.” Hermione is very aware that Neville and Susan are standing at the paddock fence, watching, their gently curious expressions perfect mirrors of each other. ( _Ron and I never…_ )

“Oh! How nice. I’m sorry I wasted Harry’s time, then.”

“No, no, that’s just the point—you didn’t. We’ve been looking for that—you called it a chalice, it was Hufflepuff’s, you see, and we’ve been looking for it for months. If it really was the one of those things that we’re looking for…”

“Oh,” Luna says, nodding. “I do see.”

“Well, it could be very, _very_ important. Do you remember Neville’s wand, how you said that it wasn’t right for him?”

“Of course,” Luna answers, tilting her head slightly, though her gaze remains well above Hermione’s eyeline.

“Well, it was one. So was the locket that Harry and Dumbledore were looking for the night…”

“The night the headmaster died, yes.” The smile doesn’t waver. “Ginny told me that Harry was holding a locket in his hand. Was it—?”

“Slytherin’s, yes.” ( _Well, not that one, but…_ ) It is astonishing sometimes to see Luna’s huge eyes shift from unfocused to laser-sharp within a heartbeat. “And the wand, as you’ve guessed, was Ravenclaw’s.”

“I recognized it from the portrait in our common room.” Luna leans closer. “Something of Gryffindor’s, then?”

“We don’t think so, no. But Luna—the chalice. Are you certain—was your mother certain that it was a, well, one of those?”

“Oh, yes. In her notes she talks about spending weeks determining that it was in fact carrying a bit of a soul inside of it, and whose it was, and that it wasn’t merely an object enchanted to carry a bit of the caster’s personality, like the Sorting Hat, say.” Luna is speaking very low, now, and with unusual intensity.

“Her notes?” Another thrill runs up Hermione’s spine. “She left notes?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve got them at the house. I look at them all of the time.”

Hermione finds herself throwing her arms around the other girl, which apparently surprises Luna as much as it does Hermione, since she gives an airy “Oh!”

Ginny and her sparring partner, Eri Nott, have joined Susan and Neville at the fence. “Hey, Hermione!” Ginny calls as she bounds over.

Hermione backs up and looks at Luna who is, for the first time that Hermione can remember, blinking. “Um. Luna’s just given me some very good news.”

“Uh, great,” says Ginny, though she looks rather dubious.

“It’s about the diary and about the chalice that killed my mother,” Luna prompts placidly—though still in a whisper so breathy as to be almost unintelligible. “And Neville’s wand, and the heavy locket that you saw in Harry’s hand on the night that Professor Dumbledore died.”

( _Well…_ ) Quietly, Hermione adds, “And a ring. And a snake.”

“Seven?” Luna asks.

“We think so,” answers Hermione. “Or rather, the headmaster thought so.”

Ginny’s eyes grow disk-like; Luna’s thin eyebrows arch.

“And that’s the biggest thing, Luna—that your mother left her notes.” Eri, Neville and Susan are listening curiously, but honestly, Hermione doesn’t think they can hear, and truly, she doesn’t care. She trusts them, and this is too important. “We need to know how to destroy them—”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” Luna says, her smile brightening uncharacteristically. “There are several methods if you are willing to destroy the vessel, all having to do with magical flame: dragon flame, phoenix flame, or the corrosive flame of the basilisk’s venom. My mother tried to create a fire that would destroy only the trapped soul. One of her experiments unleashed a black blaze that destroyed the chalice and killed her.”

“Oh.” Hermione is torn between elation—her own theories proven correct, their goal within reach, if only Charlie will help and Professor McGonagall allows it—and sorrow for her peculiar friend. Again she hugs Luna, not knowing what else to do. “I’m so sorry.”

Luna once again stands rigid within her embrace. “Yes. Well, it was rather sad. But it is all right now.”

Ginny’s hand strokes Luna’s hair and she softens.

While the two girls are close and no one else can see, Hermione slips Luna the letter and whispers, “This is from Harry. I don’t know what you two wrote to him, but I’ve never seen him so beside himself.” She gives Luna another squeeze and winks at Ginny. “And I don’t think it was just about the Horcruxes.”

Both girls blush; suddenly Hermione is both terribly curious about what message from Ginny Luna’s letter might have conveyed, and absolutely certain that she doesn’t want to know.

With a smile, Hermione realizes that she must be growing up.

Susan is whispering into Neville’s ear; he is grinning. Eri Nott is smiling placidly, intently.

“How nice,” says Luna at last. “Well, Hermione, I hope that Ronald has cleaned up his mess. I know that you like things very tidy.”

Stunned, uncertain that Luna has just said what she seems to have said, Hermione gawks first at Luna, and then at Ginny, her so-called friend, who is still blushing, her hand pressed to her mouth, holding in _laughter_ , if you please.

“Oh,” says Luna, in a voice of mild concern. “I’ve said something, haven’t I?”

“You always do,” says Eri. “It is why we all love you.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Halt!” calls the werewolf, and the duelists desist, jinxes half-cast, Stunners fired into the ground. “Well done everyone, we’ve all come a long way!”

The Jones woman claps loudly, a small smile showing just how devoid of mirth her round face has been.

“Professor!” calls a voice that you have never liked, not since its incessant prattle from first year made potions classes such a dreadful bore. “Professor, I have a favor that I’d like to ask!”

“Oh, yes, Hermione,” answers Lupin. “I suppose it was too much to think that you’d come by just to join us in some exercises.”

Anthony laughs beside you—joined by many of the older members of the DA—and Banishes the two empty bottles to an ashcan behind the tree.

Granger strides to the middle of the group, which parts for her. She looks… different. She walks differently. Something about her has changed. “Well, there’s a job that needs doing, something that involves a number of our former classmates, and I was hoping that some of you would be willing to volunteer.”

“We’ll be there, won’t we, Ginny?” says Loony, whose face is rather more pink than it is wont to be.

“Well, unfortunately, Luna,” says Granger, looking apologetically at Loony, Weasley and your own sister, “we need to have people who can Apparate”—Weasley starts to say something, as usual—“can Apparate _legally_. I’m sorry.”

There is a great deal of grumbling from the younger members of the crowd—Weasley chief among them—and a few of the older ones who don’t Apparate—Li, Boot, Gyre.

 _Former classmates._ You can think of only one group of erstwhile Hogwarts students that might need the kind of _help_ that the DA might provide. Suddenly, for the first time since you made the decision to give in to Greengrass’s prodding, you feel what loyalties you have being tested.

Once the complaints have settled, Granger continues. “Those of you who can, we need some help with something in the way of a, an _escort_ mission. We’re not going to be doing anything terribly exciting, hopefully, but it’s a night when we know that the Order and the Ministry will be stretched very thin”—the full moon, the Dark Lord’s giants and werewolves marauding—“and we want to make sure that no one suffers the fate of poor Professor Slughorn, who was found while he was alone.”

Poor Sluggy. Found alone in Gloucestershire. And Essex. And just outside the old city of York.

“This is totally voluntary, but I need to be certain that we have enough escorts to keep this safe. I can’t tell you when or where, yet, but make sure that you’ve got your DA Galleons on you, and we’ll pass the information along that way.”

There is a great deal of nodding and murmured assent.

Granger smiles. “So, this isn’t binding, but who would like to help?”

You surprise yourself—and Anthony—by raising your hand. Several of the other Slytherins blink at you—idiots. They have no subtlety; they clearly don’t understand what’s at stake. Daphne stares at you and raises her hand too. Most of the rest of the older students raise their hands in suit.

Eri is smiling at you. Approving.

“Thank you,” calls Granger, and there is a burst of excited applause, as if this was somehow the opening move in some silly Quidditch match. Bloody Gryffindors. And Hufflepuffs. And Ravenclaws.

Bloody Slytherins.

Ridiculous.

But to get Greg and Millie and Tracey and Adrian and the rest out of that madman’s grasp…

Anthony pats you on the shoulder. “Of course, we’ve all volunteered for something without the slightest idea what we’ve volunteered _for_ ,” he says with a grin and a shake of his head. “Hell. You’d think we were Gryffindors.”

“Perhaps,” you answer, and he regards you with curiosity.

Before you can say any more, the Patils approach the rest station, whispering with Granger—bickering quietly with each other, rather, while Granger attempts to get a word in, a sealed note in her hand.

“Absolutely not,” snarls Parvati, the colorful one.

Her sister, the one whose cool, dark beauty has always rather frightened you, snaps with uncharacteristic heat, “Merlin, _choti bhen_! Don’t be stupid. For _Papa’s_ sake. It’s a way to help her even the score—”

“No!”

 _Her._ You know who their father was. Know whom he worked with. Know how he is supposed to have died. Know—because they were both at first very vocal about it—the girl whom they were going to hold responsible.

You remember Daphne’s _leger de_ breasts on your first day, passing the note from Pansy to Ron Weasley.

_(Oh, my.)_

“I’ll take it,” you say, holding your hand out.

Four sets of eyes flash to you—Granger’s, the twins’ and Anthony Goldstein’s.

What have you done? _Volunteering_ again? You, who have made it your study never to stand out, never to allow yourself to be noticed, except in defending yourself or your sister?

What have you done?

“Theodore,” says Granger slowly holding up the note, “do you know who this is for?”

Mutely, you nod.

She hands you the note. “Can you get it to her today?”

You nod again.

The four of them walk away—Goldstein after giving you another pat on the shoulder and a Ravenclawish smirk. Granger is asking where to find that grinning baboon, Charlie Weasley.

From behind you, Eri threads her thin arm around you. “I think that was the right thing to do,” she says, hugging you.

You nod.

  
  


***

  
  


Baubo pokes his misshapen head through the door. “Miss Pansy Parkinson has a visitor, miss.” Just as quickly he disappears.

Pansy coughs, attempting to clear the smoke-thick air of her room. As she casts a few spells to neaten things a bit, and a discreet Scourgify, she allows herself a moment of panic that it might Draco or…

But no—she knows that isn’t possible. Not without much cloak and dagger silliness. More likely the Patils—Padma and Lakshmi, never Parvati—come to see whether she is still wracked with guilt (she is) or Daphne to regale her with tales of the goings on in Devon as if Pansy were interested (she is).

“Pansy.”

Pansy did not expect Tongue-Tied Teddy Nott to walk through the door to her _boudoir_. Standing there, sullen as always and dressed like an undertaker’s assistant. But somehow healthier looking—his skin actually has _color_ , and his hair has been combed… She leans back on her bed and peers at him, quite aware that her dressing gown has flopped most of the way open. “Merlin, Teddy. You actually look _good_.”

His smile is so minute that only someone who has spent hours trying to make him laugh would recognize it. “You don’t.”

Stung, Pansy pulls her gown closed and sits up. (It isn’t as if she _wanted_ …) “So, what brings you here? Tired of hanging out with Mudbloods and Gryffindors?”

Silently, solemnly, he crosses from the door, holding out a sealed letter. “From Granger.”

“Oh,” Pansy answers, annoyed at the thinness of her own voice. With hands trembling as much from various herbal supplements as from fear or excitement, she takes the parchment and opens it.

> _Dear Lancelot,_
> 
> _We look forward to meeting the other guests at your tea party._
> 
> _Yours truly,_
> 
> _Arthur_

It is only after some time that Pansy becomes aware that the note has dropped from her fingers. _Arthur_. “G-granger gave you this?”

Teddy nods.

Bugger. The Mudblood knows. _Bugger._

“We’re getting them out,” Teddy says, his dark eyes piercing.

“Yes,” Pansy answers. “Yes, we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes. I admit it. I have become quite enamored of Teddy and his sister. @#$$@ semi-canon characters! XD
> 
> The chapter art is Antosha, “Dear Lancelot”


	33. Lancelot's Tea Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good manners make good friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Action; violence; character death. Mostly gen with some Hermione/Ron, Pansy/Ron and Pansy/Draco overtones. The Second Person Strikes Back!
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for keeping things civilized. And tidy. ;-)

“ _Maman_ ,” Pansy calls in to the slightly canted form in the conservatory, “I’m entertaining tonight.”

Without taking her eyes from the window, Claudine Parkinson gives a negligent wave and mumbles something that might be, “ _Ah. Bon._ ”

Bloody marvelous. _Tout à fait fantastique._ _Maman_ is slumping less-than-elegantly against the back of her chair; it looks as if Baubo tried to fix her hair, and cosmetic charms are not his strength—she seems to have a tricolored hedgehog affixed to her head.

With a sigh, Pansy slips out of the room and walks to the garden doors.

The garden looks a fright. Baubo has tried to help out here too—again, not his forte—and even Pansy herself spent a few afternoons out trimming and watering and hacking away at the jungle-like growth that was threatening to choke the beds of her namesake flower that Daddy had had Maltby plant when she was born.

 _Hélas_ , Pansy is not much of a green thumb, as Professor Sprout was always so quick to point out. _Must you wield your shears like a battleaxe, Miss Parkinson? Gently! Gently! Look at the fine work Mr. Goldstein and Miss Greengrass have managed to produce!_ The garden still shows several scorch marks and bare spots where she got frustrated in trying to tame some particularly uncooperative tubers.

And she got a sunburn. Pansy _hates_ sunburn.

Still there is clear space.

The full moon is rising from behind the yew at the bottom of the garden. It is almost time for the first _guests_.

  
  


***

  
  


It is odd to be in the midst of this particular throng and not be its point of focus. Having been potions master at Hogwarts for seventeen years and head of Slytherin House for twelve, Severus Snape is used to respect and a certain decorum from his students.

The former students are showing none tonight. They barely seem aware that he is among them.

“Can’t wait to get out of this shithole,” snorts Goyle the Younger, his trunk slung over his shoulder like a book bag. Turning to unburdened Draco Malfoy he adds, “Nothing personal, Draco.”

“No,” drawls Draco back. “I’m sure not.”

Davis, who was never part of the Malfoy clique, drags her trunk through the cupboard door, into the now-crowded front hall of the Malfoy servants’ quarters. “Ain’t you afraid of what Old Pisser’ll do to your place once you’ve scarpered?”

She is the thirteenth. They are all here.

Draco—who has been looking far more the Draco of old in the last week or so—gives a lofty sneer. “I have five house elves who know what will happen if they allow any harm to come to this place,” he says with enormous _hauteur_. Like the Snapes, the Davises have no traffic with house elves, being poor and relatively newly come to magic. “They will defend it, and will obey no one but the owner. And even while I am… on holiday, Davis, that would be _me._ ”

Beneath her breath, Tracey Davis mumbles, “La di bloody dah.”

Severus Snape cannot help but concur. “Come,” he says, and the whole crowd jump as if they had forgotten that he was present, “let us get underway. It would not do to be found at this point.”

Even Draco looks apprehensive at _that_ thought. “There is a set of tunnels that leads from the wine cellar. This way.” He strides somewhat less cockily to the back of the low-ceilinged hall.

“And your admirable elves know when to lower the Apparition wards?”

“Of course,” snaps Draco, lighting his wand and scuffling down the stairs and into the dark.

  
  


***

  
  


There is a flurry of _pops_ and suddenly the garden, which was empty and still, is full of some of Pansy’s least favorite people.

“Parkinson,” says Chang, who would of course be closest, her wand out, head swiveling.

“Lovely to see you, too, Miss Chang,” answers Pansy in her best hostess simper. “Miss… Miss Edgecombe.”

The blonde swot’s eyes narrow and her wand comes to bear on Pansy’s chest.

“They’re… No one is here yet. You got here first, as we arranged.” It is difficult not to look at the tip of a wand that is trained on you by someone that you know would rather see you dead than alive. “Th— Thank you for coming. Truly.”

Pansy forces herself to look up into Marietta Edgecombe’s eyes, which have widened slightly. The girl has her untamable hair pulled fiercely back so that the message written in blemishes across her forehead is broadcast boldly, like a badge of honor. “Good,” the girl mutters and pushes past Pansy, tramping the already ruined flowerbeds to make sure no Death Eaters are hidden there. Chang follows at her elbow.

“Secure the perimeter,” says a voice that makes parts well south of Pansy’s putative heart suddenly feel quite warm, and the rest of the DA members follow suit, wandering off in to the shrubbery in twos and threes. Teddy with Swot Goldstein, while Daphne wanders beneath the wisteria with those nobodies, Harbottle and Harper. Fascinating.

“Lancelot,” says a voice that doesn’t make any part of Pansy warm at all.

“Lovely to see you too, _Arthur_ ,” answers Pansy, extending her open hand.

The Mudblood takes it. Shakes it. Drops it.

Her eyes are hard and cold—can’t blame her for that—but she looks _different_. Softer and harder at the same time.

Lucky Guinevere.

“So what does that make me?” asks Potter, that priggish grin of his set firmly in place.

“Merlin, I suppose,” mutters Ron. He puts a hand on Granger’s shoulder and looks at Pansy: it is that same expression of fierce pity that she purposely avoided seeing the last time that he came to her, the look that you would not see, but knew was there, that has haunted her thoughts of him ever since even so. ( _You deserve better._ ) “Come on, Harry, the last time I was here I didn’t like the look of the approach from the river—too open. Help me check it, okay?” He looks to Pansy and then gives Granger’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You two think you can go over any last minute details without killing each other?”

“Absolutely,” Pansy finds herself saying in perfect synchronization with the Mudblood.

The two boys—men—stalk off towards the lowest part of the garden where once—a century back or more—the family had a boathouse, and where now the river swirls greasily around submerged pilings.

Pansy glances back at Granger, whose eyes have remained focused and unyielding.

It is amazing to think that among _Maman_ ’s many lessons in etiquette and protocol, she actually covered this circumstance: how to talk with another woman who knows that you’ve slept with her man. For the first time in months, Pansy mentally thanks her mother. ( _Do not blush. Do not apologize. Do not attack. Simply be gracious, as if she lent you a particularly lovely horse to ride and you appreciate her consideration, tu comprends?_ ) “So, my liege, are there any last-minute details to discuss?”

“Not that I know of,” says Granger, still stony.

“Ah.” It is difficult to be gracious under the heat of such hostility—and coming from a swotty bitch whose very existence has been an insult since the day they both arrived at Hogwarts. But Pansy does try. “I’m very glad that you and your knights were able to make my little tea party.”

That at least earns Pansy a small smile and a snort. “You are quite welcome.”

Relaxing just a bit into the pretense of garden-party chatter, Pansy continues, “I have been most anxious for my other guests to arrive. One in particular.”

“Of course,” answers Granger. “Though you will have to forgive me if I question _why_.”

Pansy bristles, but manages to keep her smile intact. “Why? Why I am anxious to see him again?”

“Why you would want to see him _at all_.” There is no sneer to Granger’s voice or face—just open curiosity. “He’s horrid.” She leans forward, looking Pansy directly in the eye. “He’s been horrid to _you_.”

A knot of ice forms in Pansy’s stomach—fear? anger? shame? Pulling herself up to her full height—and in her heels she is at least a good three inches taller than the Mudblood—she responds, “Perhaps. But that is my concern, and mine only. Not all of us are so lucky to have such a paragon of honor and constancy as _you_.”

Granger’s chin juts, but she does not rise to the bait. “No,” she says after a moment. “No, I would imagine that few women are as lucky as I am.”

“Yes,” Pansy says, and finds that mixing with the mélange of fury in her gut is suddenly something different and unexpected—regret. Mute for a moment herself, she tilts her head in concession, and then smiles again. “And he is wonderfully… _equipped_ , isn’t he?”

Hermione’s eyes narrow, but the thin lips bow into a smile. “Oh, yes. Yes, he is. In more ways than you can possibly know.”

“Okay,” Ron’s voice calls, snapping both women back to the task at hand. “DA folks, if you can gather in front of the house, please, you know the drill.”

The shadows of the DA—some twenty-five or thirty of them, most of them vaguely familiar, several carrying rather ominous looking instruments, all with their wands out and at the ready—drift out of the shrubs and form up in the moonlight, looking quite, quite capable.

“Wouldn’t it be better with the moon at our back?” asks someone close by—Bones.

“Yeah,” answers Ron as he strides back to where Hermione and Pansy are standing, broad shoulders silhouetted by the rising moon, “but I don’t want them getting skittish, having to squint at us with the light in their faces. We have time to get ready, so we’ll give them that.”

“Oh,” says Bones, apparently mollified, and shifts what looks to be some sort of portable Dark Detector back onto her shoulder.

Pansy is taken aback to find that she and Hermione have given matching appreciative grunts at Ron’s approaching figure—and at his response. “Guinevere is full of surprises, no?”

“Oh, yes,” says Hermione, and they both watch him approach.

“It looks okay,” Ron says to Granger, and she smiles—after all, _he_ was the one who was concerned. She takes his hand; he smiles back.

A new seasoning adds itself to the gumbo in Pansy’s gut: jealousy.

“Pansy,” says Potter, very serious and very close, and Pansy snaps around to find herself speared by those famously green eyes—she has never seen them from this close, and even in the moonlight they are quite something. ( _Simply divine…_ ) He holds up a scrap of parchment that looks to have been folded and refolded dozens of times. “I need you to look at this—read it very carefully. It will tell you where you and the others will be going once we’ve made sure that everything is all right.”

Puzzled at the silliness of the whole thing, Pansy takes the parchment, opens it and finds a note written in a vaguely familiar, looping Victorian hand: _The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at number 12, Grimmauld Place, London._

  
  


***

  
  


“I’m gonna grab the first little piece of DA arse I can find and show her what a _real man_ can do,” crows Pucey to a chorus of laughter.

Severus liked it better when they didn’t talk around him.

“How you gonna do that, Pucey?” Goyle the Younger gives Bullstrode a rather undignified squeeze, evoking an equally undignified squeal from the massive, bovine girl. “Most of the rest of us’ll already be busy, so where you gonna _find_ a real man?”

“Like either of them would know the difference,” snarls Tracey Davis so that only Snape can hear. He finds that he likes the girl more and more, unfortunate though her face may be.

Adrian Pucey, thin and pasty, shifts his huge rucksack, undeterred in his flight of fancy. “Maybe I’ll give both those Patils a go, you know? And for a nice dessert, Ginny Weasley.”

Again Davis mutters, this time for general consumption, “She’d have _you_ for lunch, prat.”

“The Weasley bitch is Potter’s,” says Draco with a low edge to his voice that Severus has not heard frequently of late.

“And Potter belongs to Draco,” snorts Crabbe the Younger, clapping his beefy hands.

Draco shoots the huge buffoon a glare and the idiot closes his mouth like a Venus flytrap.

 _Something is odd_ , thinks Severus Snape. _I am missing something_.

But no—the Dark Lord’s forces and his focus are elsewhere. The werewolves are marauding near London and Rabastan is in charge of their minders—most of the Dark Lord’s finest. The giants are playing cat and mouse with their kin in the Welsh mountains with a half a dozen Death Eaters and Order members dogging them and each other. Pettigrew and a group of rather more pathetic recent recruits are attacking the Knight Bus. The Dark Lord himself is engaged in his monthly unspoken and most likely unspeakable communion with his snake. They are safe. They have chosen the night well.

At just that moment a ripple in the stars informs them that the elves have lowered the Anti-Apparition wards that protect the Malfoy estate.

“Come,” Snape says, and the mob snaps to something like attention, if only out of habit. “It is time to go.”

  
  


***

  
  


You are standing there with the rest, your wand twitching in your sweaty hand, when a loud series of _cracks_ and _pops_ announce the arrival of your sometime housemates.

Not all Slytherins, of course—there’s Summerby, and Carmichael.

“Draco!” calls Pansy from your left, and the blond arse starts to stroll towards her.

“Stop!” calls Weasley.

“Make me,” sneers Draco, but before he can take another step, a flash of intense red light zooms by his ear and he has the presence of mind to freeze.

“Hold still, all of you,” says the familiar, cold voice of your former head of house.

Anthony all but growls at your side.

“Thank you, _Professor,_ ” says Potter, his voice a model of perfectly etched disdain. “All of you—thank you. We are very happy that you are here, and happy that we are going to be able to help you start a new life. We want nothing more than to trust you and welcome you with open arms—all of you have friends here who are very, very happy to see you.” Everyone is standing quite still now—you among them. “But we need to make sure of a few things first—that none of you are under the influence of the Imperius Curse, for example, or Polyjuice Potion. We’ve got a few Dark Detectors that we’re going to use to make sure that none of you are _unintentionally_ helping Voldemort”—a collective shudder rolls through the fourteen backlit figures on the other side—“turn your escape to his own advantage.”

  
  


***

  
  


It is a shock for Severus to realize that Potter—Saint Potter, Glory-hog Potter, Anything-for-the-fans Potter—has actually thought this through. Or listened to someone else who has. Either of which would be utterly unexpected.

“What we want you to do,” continues Potter, “is to stay where you are for a few minutes. Put your wands on the ground—at your feet. Four DA members will approach you, also without wands, but with some equipment.”

Four figures move forward, bright moonlight carving their features out of the dark: Goldstein, his pathetic excuse for facial hair scarcely improved by six months’ growth; Edgecomb, her bare forehead bearing its mark of shame; Susan Bones, whose oval face causes Severus Snape a brief twinge of something like regret—it is so like her aunt’s; and Daphne Greengrass of all useless creatures. Not a Gryffindor in the lot. Not one likely to be perceived by any of the defectors as a threat. Again, Severus is impressed, and somewhat amused.

Severus carefully places his wand on his foot where he can flip it up to his hand in the event of need; most of the others simply drop theirs to the ground.

“Oh, of _course_ , Potter,” says Draco, his most insupportable, insouciant sneer firmly in place. He lets the dark wand fall negligently from his long fingers into the grass at his feet. “Pansy, I must say, I preferred your hospitality a great deal more the last time I enjoyed it.”

“Yeah, but did she prefer the way you _enjoyed_ it, ferret boy?” Weasley is standing between Potter and Granger, his usual spot, but for once he doesn’t seem to fade behind their combined glamour.

“Shush, Ron,” says the insufferable Granger.

“Yes, _Shush, Ron_ ,” laughs Draco, and several of the others laugh with him.

Weasley gestures with his hand, and the four DA members approach the defectors slowly. “You know, Malfoy, Parkinson here is the only reason we’re letting you along on this trip. So, if you’d rather make smart remarks we can always hog-tie you and leave you here. There’s a nice willow over the river at the bottom of the garden—the fish and the frogs might find you funny.”

“You and what army, Weasle-by!” Draco is continuing to smile, but his no-longer-quite-so-white teeth are more and more in evidence.

“This army, Malfoy,” says Potter, arms spread to indicate the thirty-two visible members of the so-called Dumbledore’s Army. Severus takes some pleasure in watching Draco suddenly remember that he and his friends are outnumbered here two to one, and that they’ve willingly disarmed themselves. Bullies’ habits die hard; one need only ask James Potter or Sirius Black—if one could. “Now, if we can keep this civil, our friends should be finished within a few minutes.”

Draco holds up his hands as if in greeting—never in supplication. “And how can we complain of such civil treatment?”

 _There is something wrong_ , Severus finds himself thinking again. He looks down the row of young, sometime-Death Eaters and frowns. _What?_

  
  


***

  
  


Pansy is finding it difficult to breathe. It is bad enough that Ron should know how Draco’s fury marked her body and soul during that last visit. Worse that Granger should know.

But that Draco _knows_ that they both know?

Nothing good can come from that.

She can feel him glaring at her from across the lawn.

 _For you_ , she wants to tell him. _Only for you_.

Of course, this is no longer entirely true.

Pansy is no longer entirely certain just what is true.

  
  


***

  
  


You are anxious, watching Anthony and Daphne checking your onetime acquaintances. Goldstein is very politely scanning Adrian Pucey, who looks even more chinless then he did when you saw him last. Daphne is giggling with Millicent as she checks the massive girl over with the odd looking loop of glass and wire; Greg is grinning and talking with them both, and yet you are not at all at ease.

Draco Malfoy.

It seems highly unlikely that he would have got himself a new wand at this late date—especially when he was always going on about the _quality_ of the hawthorn rootwood in the one he has carried since you’ve known him. And so that mahogany wand must be a blind—an extra.

And you can think of no good reason for him to be carrying two wands.

You keep your own single one trained on him. And consider pointing out the change to someone—Weasley? Potter? Anthony?

But who would bother listening to you?

And what difference does a new wand make?

“So, Pansy,” Draco drawls, “once this lovely soirée breaks up, wherever shall we go next? Dancing at the Prancing Satyr? Cocktails at Beelzebub’s?”

There is a silence that Pansy, who is three shoulders down from you, pointedly does not—or cannot—fill.

“We’re going to my house,” says Harry Potter.

“What?” snaps Draco, and Crabbe and Pucey snort behind him. “You’re going to drag some of Wizarding Britain’s oldest and proudest names into some Muggle _dump_?”

“Actually,” Potter says, quite calmly, “I said that we were going to _my house_. The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”

  
  


***

  
  


“The…?” It is always a pleasure to watch someone, even Potter, wrong-foot Draco Malfoy—he scowls in a way that makes his nose and chin even pointier than they normally are. “That’s a _family_ , Potter— _my_ family on my mother’s side, not a bloody building.”

Severus watches with scarcely half of his attention on the exchange between two of the most obnoxious boys that it has been his displeasure to know not named Weasley or Black. Part of his mind is worrying once again at the question of which inferred, infernal oath binds him more tightly—the one or ones binding him to Potter, or the most recent one binding him to Draco. His thoughts have worried around this conundrum so frequently that he lets them meander now as they will. What is left of his consciousness is focused on the question of just what it is that is bothering him. The row of erstwhile Death Eaters, some with bags or trunks at their—

“True,” Harry answers, still looking quite at ease; Severus does note that his wand is still very much in line with Draco, though the tip is lowered. “It is a family whose last member was killed by your late aunt, and who left his holdings to me. Including the house whose location I cannot tell you.”

Forehead shining, Goldstein moves on to a silent Tracey Davis.

“ _Cannot_?” Dark circles are beginning to form on Draco’s cheeks, a sign of danger as even Potter—had he half a brain—should be able to recognize. “What are you playing at?”

“Not a game. Tell me, Malfoy, what’s the address of the house in which your mother’s father grew up?”

Draco mouths like a needle-nosed fish, incapable of saying the address. Really, it is almost entertaining, knowing the answer. Severus focuses back on Draco, whose empty hands are twitching. “I… can’t.”

“No,” says Potter, his voice infuriatingly cheerful. “No, you can’t. Nor can anyone else. That’s part of what makes it the safest house in Britain, and part of why we and the Order are happy to offer it to all of you as a sanctuary. And Draco, it is well and truly _mine_. So if you wish to be a guest in my house, I hope that you can treat everyone— _everyone_ —with respect and courtesy.”

Severus looks again at Draco’s long, sharp fingers, flexing fingers. _Empty. Empty hands. He and Crabbe… And Summerby and… THEY DIDN’T BRING THEIR BAGGAGE. THEY NEVER INTENDED…!_

  
  


***

  
  


It happens so quickly that Pansy scarcely has time to blink and yet she can see it all— _all_ , as clearly as if it were caught in a flash of lighting, and yet as if the clock slowed to a snail’s crawl: Draco draws a wand from his sleeve ( _The other wand? When…?_ ) and snarls, “ _Avada Ke…!_ ” ( _He can’t! He couldn’t, couldn’t kill!_ )

Potter starts to cast something, but huge hands pull him to the side.

Three people down from her, Teddy Nott starts to shout, “ _Petrificus…”_

Professor Snape flings himself between Draco and Potter, his wand—which he flipped into his hand—describing a broad slash that slices Draco’s head from his lovely neck before he can finish the incantation, coincidentally rendering him quite instantly dead.

Before the leaping Professor Snape hits the grass, a black flame explodes from his right hand; he screams as it engulfs him.

Crabbe casts a killing curse that catches Teddy Nott in the center of his chest. Tongue-tied, Beddy Teddy, Naughty, Knotty Nott crumples to the ground, never not to speak again.

With a howl, Greg Goyle slams his oldest friend in the face with a left hand the size of a coconut and blood splatters black in the moonlight as Vince Crabbe crumples to the ground.

Millicent and Daphne scream—Millicent in rage, Daphne in fear—and reach for their wands. Summerby, the Hufflepuff, snarls an incantation; purple light flares and catches the side of Daphne’s face, flinging her twenty feet across the lawn.

The entire DA open up with a volley of Stunners that catch everyone on the other side of the lawn in a wash of red.

  
  


***

  
  


You find yourself running across the grass. “Draco! Draco!”

  
  


***

  
  


Hermione shoves herself up from under Ron and Harry and stands, wand at the ready—the two boys scrambling up beside her.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry stammers.

“But…” Ron says, “Professor…. It was _Snape_.” He points to the roiling lump of black flame in front of Draco Malfoy’s decapitated body. “He… saved your life.”

“Life debt,” Hermione’s mouth says for her as she brushes clumps of soil from her robes. “Life debt to Harry’s father and Unbreakable Vows… To Dumbledore, and to Mrs. Malfoy, and…” The mouth, however, cannot speak more; it is occupied with vomiting.

  
  


***

  
  


You bow over the lifeless corpse. “Draco… Draco…”

  
  


***

  
  


There is a howl, followed by another. Werewolves. Voldemort’s forces. Hermione looks up and sees that Ron too heard them. “BUG OUT!” he howls. “DA, BUG OUT!”

Several of the DA Disapparate immediately. Harry and the others remaining sprint to the fallen—DA and Death Eater, they can’t be left behind. Neville grabs Theodore Nott’s limp body, peers nervously over at the Stunned crowd and sees Terry Boot Disapparating with Susan before leaving himself. Ron races to Daphne Greengrass, who is moaning on the ground, and Apparates away with her Side-along.

Within seconds there are few of the dead and only two of the living remaining in the garden.

Hermione stumbles forward, the sound of the werewolves and of wand fire getting closer and louder. She steps around the smoldering mass that was Professor Snape ( _Did he know? He will never know…_ ) and approaches Pansy Parkinson, who seems to be wailing over Draco’s corpse.

  
  


***

  
  


“ _Draco!_ ” you screech. “ _Draco!_ ”

  
  


***

  
  


  
  


Pansy is screaming his name, but as Hermione approaches, she realizes that the other girl is not weeping: she is slamming her fists into his dead flesh. “Stupid! Idiot! Bloody! Fool!”

“Pansy,” says Hermione, taking the other girl’s arm and pulling her upright.

“YOU BLOODY ARSE!” Pansy kicks the body; there is a sickening thud as she breaks the bones in what had been her lover’s arm. The grass is slick with his blood. Pansy’s face and generous chest are spattered black with it.

“It must have been a plan. With or without Voldemort’s approval—” Hermione realizes the pointlessness of trying to reason with someone even more deeply in shock than she herself is.

A curse flies over their heads, shattering several windows; a small blaze suddenly turns the garden from moonlit blue to bonfire gold. The blaze grows. The wolves bay hungrily.

“Pansy,” Hermione says, “we have to go.”

“What?” Parkinson turns, eyes wide, and looks at Hermione.

“We need to go. The Death Eaters and the werewolves are here.”

“Poor Teddy. Oh, god. Eri.” Parkinson gasps. “Poor, peculiar, pretty Eri.”

“Yes.” Hermione looks around; they are alone, except for the two corpses and the approaching horde. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Poor Daphne.”

“Yes. That is a rather nasty curse, but I survived it, so I’m sure she will be fine. Pansy—”

The taller girl looks over Hermione’s head; the flame is reflected in her eyes. “ _MAMAN! MAMAN!_ ”

The whole house is ablaze. “Pansy! I’m leaving. Please come. You know where—”

Face slack, Pansy murmurs, “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

And the two girls disappear just as the werewolves lope into the garden, tongues lolling, snarling at the two useless, dead bodies, one decapitated, the other burnt, just as the Death Eaters fire off more spells and one sends up the Dark Mark.

Claudine Parkinson slumps unconscious in her chair, her original Yves St. Laurent dressing gown draped elegantly around her as the fire boils the last of the absinthe in her small glass to vapor before consuming its owner and the rest of the house.

Her last thought before she drifted into oblivion was that Pansy’s party was going well.

Within an hour the only sign that Parkinsons inhabited this spot for more than three centuries are the small whirlpools over the sunken pilings in the river.

  
  


***

  
  


You are alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: :sigh: Yeah. A few characters kinda bit the dust, didn't they? Requiescat in pace.
> 
> I've been thinking about this chapter since I started outlining the story; it wrote itself.
> 
> Some of you will recognize the way in which Snape died from my semi-gen, semi-Pansy/Luna fic, Trick or Treat (R). This fic and that don't inhabit the same universe... but the idea wouldn't get out of my head, so I knew I needed to use it again.
> 
> Chapter art is Antosha, “Port Glass”


	34. A Memory of What's to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the stillpoint of the turning world.

Remus has triggered the knot in the Whomping Willow, has clambered down and is halfway along the tunnel, mind elsewhere—Nymphadora, the refugees—before it suddenly comes to him that the last time that he was in the Shrieking Shack was the night that Sirius was returned to him. To them.

He stands, mid-stride, the scent of roots and slime and rats washing over him like sorrow.

Three years. Three and a half. One and a half since Sirius disappeared once again into the dark. Where Remus could not follow.

It does no good to think that Sirius would be proud—proud of Harry, proud of the DA, proud of the Order, proud even of Remus. It does no good to think how he would have enjoyed taking the mickey out of Remus over his relationship with Tonks.

The only thing that moves Remus forward is knowing that James and Lily’s son is waiting for him at the other end of the tunnel. Harry needs him.

And so he pushes away thoughts of pink hair and black, of smooth skin and rough against his own, and walks down the dark, familiar tunnel to the dank, familiar stairs leading up to his own personal hell and sanctuary.

The Shrieking Shack smells of mice and loss.

Harry sits on the ruins of the beautiful old four-poster in the upstairs bedroom. He smiles to see Remus, but his face reflects the same conflicted memory of this place that Remus has been struggling with. “Hey, Remus,” he says, rising off of the bed.

“Harry,” Remus answers, pulling him into a hug. Harry returns the hug rather less stiffly than at the beginning of the summer, and though Remus would like to think that it is because they have gotten to know each other better, he knows that it has more to do with Ginny Weasley introducing Harry to the solace that physical touch can bring. It is a lesson that Remus himself had to learn at about the same age—a lesson that he learned from Sirius, among others. “You look well. Life on the run seems to be agreeing with you.” It was true—always thin, Harry had put on wiry muscle in the two months that he and his friends had been on the road.

“Well, I’m hoping to stop running soon,” Harry said, stepping back. “In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk—”

Remus held up a hand; best to follow the pattern of their lessons from the summer. “Let me see how you’re doing with Legilimency first, Harry. Then af—”

_tears flowing down his face, breath ragged, their passion spent. Touch. Touch. So much touch._

_Sirius looked up, that canine smirk of his so broad that Remus could only think to kiss it off. Rough chin against his chin. Chest against his chest. Touch. Into Sirius’s lips, he groaned, “Sirius, Sirius, I_

am so sorry,” Harry stammers, wand tip dropping. “I’m _so_ sorry, Remus. I…”

He reached out and grabs Harry’s free hand. “No, Harry, it’s all right. That was excellent. No incantation?”

“I… I’ve been practicing.” Harry stares up into Remus’s eyes as if he wants to look away but can't. It is a look that Remus is quite familiar with. “Remus. I… I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I… You and Sirius. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t?” Remus finds himself chuckling. “I assumed that everyone did. Ah, well. It’s all right, Harry. There’s not much in my life that I am proud of, but I am certainly not ashamed of what you just saw.”

“Was that…?” Now Harry looks down, thinking. “You were at Hogwarts?”

“Yes. Seventh year. The age you are now.”

“I…” Harry blushes. “Did… my parents know?”

Now Remus laughs; his laugh is never terribly energetic, he knows, but even so, it feels good to laugh. “Yes, Harry. Sirius told James about everyone he ever tumbled. He considered part of their honorary brotherhood, though I think that your father would have been just as happy to skip some of the details. And your mother knew how I felt about Sirius before I did.”

“My… mother?” Harry blinks.

“Well, of course,” Remus says, chuckling again. “She was my girlfriend at the time; it affected her rather directly.”

“ _Your_ girlfriend?” Harry looks as if he’s been hit in the stomach by a Bludger. His dumbstruck expression causes Remus to laugh again, startling a sleeping bat from the canopy of the bed.

“Of course! I was her first kiss, and she mine!” Funny as Harry’s reaction is, it is hard not to feel the old spike of pain, not to remember why he has not told Harry of all of this before. “I could have been your father, Harry. Except of course that I never felt for her the way James did. And she for him. And I never felt for her as I did for Sirius. In truth, you could never have been anything but a Potter.”

“God, Remus,” Harry says, face awash with emotion. “I… I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… Does… Does Tonks know?”

“About Lily? About Sirius?” Harry shrugs. “Well, of course! She was as deeply affected by Sirius’s death as I was, Harry. She feels to this day that if she hadn’t let Bellatrix Stun her, Sirius wouldn’t have died.”

“But that’s—”

“Ridiculous, yes, but exactly how I feel, and you too, I am sure” Remus takes a deep breath to fight down the wild tempest of emotion that is warring within him. “Tonks and I spent a couple of very difficult weeks after Sirius died, trying to help each other heal. Unfortunately, the moon came, and then Dumbledore asked for me to go back and help with the werewolves, and I knew—or thought at the time that I knew—that I was precisely the wrong person for Nymphadora. I left and never thought to turn back. I didn’t want her to lose again.” He can see her desperate anger during one of the brief returns to headquarters, snarling while Molly Weasley tried to placate, _So in order to **spare me** having to lose someone, you’re going to walk away? To bloody late, Moony!_

He had walked away anyway. Bless the persistence of the Blacks.

“But,” Harry says, interrupting Remus’s thoughts, pleasant and unpleasant, “that memory. I saw… You, er, you _like_ boys.” He frowns; no judgment, just confusion. Bless the fair-mindedness of the Potters.

“I like _people_ , Harry.” It is Remus’s turn to shrug. _I loved Sirius. I love Nymphadora. I loved Lily—though nowhere near as much as she deserved._ “For a man of my age, I have had few lovers, but those that I have had have been wonderful gifts, each and every one.”

Harry nods, and then his eyes take on a different focus; his hand goes to his pocket, but then he looks up. “I… Can I show you… a couple of things, Remus? Something I’ve been trying to figure out?”

“Show?”

“Memories. Things I haven’t let you see.”

Remus nods. That was the whole point of teaching Harry Legilimency—since his talent for Occlumency is so limited, the only way for him to protect his mind is to counterattack, both by planting images and by shifting the attacker back into his own mind. Remus, of course, shielded his own memories during their sessions; the only reason that Harry came across that memory of the first time that he and Sirius had sex was because Harry slipped in so quickly—and because the walk to the Shrieking Shack and their conversation brought it so close to the surface. “Are you certain, Harry? Is it anything that might compromise—?”

“It’s personal,” Harry answers, shaking his head. “It’s something I… I can’t figure out, and I need help.”

“Ah,” Remus says. “All right then. _Leglimens._ ”

_her skin against Harry’s; freckles everywhere, and that blazing look that told Harry that she was his, but he was **hers**._

“ _Merlin, I love you,” Harry said, his hand brushing her sweat-wet hair out of her face so that he could see those bright eyes with no obstruction. “I love you so much.”_

Remus falls back into himself, gasping. He grabs the bedpost for support. The depth of Harry’s desire was one thing; the depth of his devotion, of his _feeling_ is quite another. “I’m not sure that I see the problem, Harry. I know that she is—”

“I know,” Harry says. His skin flames dark red, and Remus does not think it is due to embarrassment. Remus can smell the arousal that that memory has stirred in him.

There are times when Remus really wishes that he wasn’t burdened with a werewolf’s senses.

“I know,” Harry says again, struggling to regain control. “But… But, there are two more. One’s a memory, one’s… It’s something I was told about, and that I’ve thought about an awful lot.”

“I see,” Remus says. “And you’d like me to see those too?”

Harry nods, biting his lip.

“ _Leglimens!_ ”

_beneath his shirt, long fingers exploring seemingly at random, tongue exploring his own, and **Ohhhhhhhhh** , the monster growling as Luna pressed herself against Harry, and he began to kiss her back, to nibble at her ear, to feel her body respond to his touch, and his body, **Ohhhhhhhhh** …_

_And Ginny watching. Smiling. Frowning. Clutching her wand…_

The image shifts, and the colors and _feel_ are less intense in some ways than in the two memories, and yet _richer_ somehow. Remus hardly has a chance to catch his breath or balance before

_the bed creaking as Ginny leaned forward, her lips finding Luna’s, her light-clad, lithe form pressing against Luna’s longer, unclad one. Pink lips met pale lips. Brown eyes closed but huge, silvery ones stayed open as in shock. Long, white fingers ran through silken, flaming locks as shorter, freckled ones twisted themselves in tangled blonde ones. A gasp. A sigh._

_Harry, standing in the shadows, a look of surprise on his face—surprise, and more than a bit of relief. And desire. He began pulling his shirt…_

_**not one of us, Wizard-wolf!** ” Greyback’s beta snarled, and the pack circled Remus…_

“Sorry!” Harry is saying again—gasping. “Sorry!”

Both men stand panting, staring at each other, their wands slightly raised.

Harry trembles, and Remus knows that it isn’t just from the cold that makes their breaths ghost in the pale beams of the half moon that shines through the cracks in the boards. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I didn’t mean…”

Remus waits for Harry to look up. When he does, Remus finishes, “You let me see more of that… imagined scene than you’d intended. And so you used your own Legilimency as I’ve been training you to do. It was perfectly all right. Although that particular night among the werewolves is one that I would have preferred not to have had to relive.”

Harry nods. He suddenly looks much more like the boy of thirteen that Remus first met: awkward, shy, fierce.

“I’m not sure what you are asking of me, Harry,” Remus says. When Harry neither answers nor looks away, Remus attempts to prompt him: “If you are asking me if a person—Ginny, you?—can truly love more than one person, well, I suppose the answer is that of course they can.”

The look of relief that Remus spied in Harry’s imagined memory lightens the intensity of his gaze, but the frown does not disappear altogether.

“Love isn’t finite, Harry. The problem isn’t love—it is trust. And whether one person can be with two others… Whether three people can be together…” Remus scratches his beard. “Well, it’s hard enough with two, as I’m sure you know.”

Harry nods glumly.

“I’m afraid, Harry, that I can’t advise you. You’re beyond my level. I’m afraid I’m not much more experienced in matters of love than you are yourself.” Remus reaches out and touches Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Harry says, his eyes focused on Remus’s chest. “The thing is, I know that bit’s silly. I’m not really worried about that. To be honest, I’m more…” He looks up. “You _loved_ Sirius. Right?”

It is with a certain amount of shock that Remus realizes that he never actually put it that way—that he never told Sirius how he felt, nor told anyone else. But yes… “Absolutely.”

“And do you love Tonks?” Those green eyes of Harry’s are boring into Remus, and Remus can all but feel the Legilementic probe that he knows that Harry could loose on him at this moment, no matter the effort Remus might put into Occlumency.

“Absolutely,” Remus whispers.

“And was it…?” Remus watches compassion veil Harry’s features, watches him swipe it away. “It took you a while, but you’re happy with her now. Right?”

“Yes.”

Harry leans back, and Remus feels as if an Erumpent has just stepped off of his chest. “Great. Great. That’s what I wanted to know.”

“Ah,” Remus says, bewildered but relieved.

Bless the fierceness of the Evanses.

Harry runs a hand through his unruly mop of hair, and the gesture—James’s gesture—brings Remus back to himself.

Chuckling again, though rather more shakily, he says, “Well, I’m glad to have helped.”

Harry flashes him a rare grin. “Thanks.”

“So,” Remus says, straightening his threadbare robes, “is that what you wanted to discuss?”

“That?” Harry blinks and then laughs. “No! No—I wanted to get the news on funerals, and the refugees, and also there’s something important I needed to ask—about defeating Voldemort. Something only you can help with.”

“Well,” Remus says, pleased even as the name sends a residual shudder through him, “you know I’ll do anything that I can. Though I’m surprised that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger aren’t here.”

“Er, yeah, well, that’s part of it too.” Harry’s grin turns more sheepish. “They… They haven’t had a whole lot of what Hermione calls, er, _quality_ _time._ ”

“Oh?”

Harry’s face starts to turn red again, and this time it isn’t from arousal—it smells too sour.

“I seem to remember having to give your parents plenty of _quality time_ ,” Remus muses. “Sirius never picked up on the hints—I always had to lure him away with promises of—”

“Yeah, well, there’s at least one person I’m not as dense as!” splutters Harry.

Remus laughs again, and it is a laugh that even Nymphadora hasn’t managed to get out of him in months. “Something to be proud of!”

“I guess,” grumbles Harry.

“You have much to be proud of Harry. Believe me.”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Remus says once the giggles subside, “the funerals. And you want to know about the refugees.”

“And the wounded. We had to leave that night before we could find out…” Harry bites his lip. “How… How’s Daphne Greengrass?”

“Ah.” Of course, they would all be worried for her. “Her prognosis is improved. That curse—Nymphadora tells me that the Aurors call it _Dolohov’s Delight_ —is quite unpleasant, but because she was treated quickly, and because Madam Pomfrey had the experience of treating Hermione last year, the damage was limited.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise. “Was she able to regrow—?”

“No,” Remus answers with a sigh. “No. But there could have been further damage if it had not been treated quickly. She could have died.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry hisses. “I… I hardly know her.”

“I know. But she went willingly, Harry. As did they all. She was there to help her friends.” Remus is not certain that Miss Greengrass is the sort to expose herself to danger knowingly. But he also remembers how devoted she was to a number of the others. “In any case, Madam Pomfrey hopes to be able to remove her from sedation soon.”

“She…” Harry gawks. “It’s been more than two weeks! She’s been under this whole time!”

Nodding grimly, Remus answers, “Yes. That curse causes terrible pain—and it is very difficult to dispel—Miss Granger can tell you, and she was caught in a weaker, non-verbal version of it.”

“Hell,” groans Harry. “Poor Daphne. How about the others?”

Remus runs through the tally in his head. “Well, most of them are all right. Still more than a bit stunned, reasonably enough. Summerby, Flint and young Endicott were remanded to Ministry custody—they went willingly enough, since a number of their former allies and more than a few of the members of the DA were threatening grievous bodily harm. Mr. Crabbe was in a coma for a week; Mr. Goyle apparently packs quite an excellent left hook when aroused. As soon as Madam Pomfrey clears him, he too will be sent to join his father in Azkaban.”

Harry nods grimly.

“Mr. Goyle, Miss Bullstrode and Miss Davis have asked permission to join DA meetings.”

“Wow. How is that going?”

“Honestly, I think they will be welcomed with open arms. A number of the DA members who participated in the exchange have been coming to Grimmauld Place—some for follow-up appointments with Madam Pomfrey, and some simply to see the people for whom they risked their lives. For right now it was agreed that they should remain incommunicado.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Harry mutters. “Hell. Hell. I feel… I feel as if this was all my fault.”

Remus realizes that he should have anticipated this. “How so?”

With a sigh, Harry flops back down to sit on the bed. “I feel as if… I know that Malfoy must have planned the attack, that it wasn’t spur of the moment. But if I hadn’t taunted him… If I hadn’t…”

“Harry.” Remus sits beside him. The comforter kicks up decades of dust. “Everyone that I spoke with said that you handled it remarkably well. That you, Ron and Hermione had planned it well, and that that was the only reason that more people didn’t die. Even Pansy Parkinson says that you handled Mr. Malfoy as expertly as anyone could have done.” With a grunt, Remus continues, “That is, when she’s not ranting about wishing she’d been able to be the one who killed him.”

Groaning, Harry says. “God. Pansy. I mean, she must be an absolute mess.”

“Yes,” Remus agrees, “I think that would be a fairly accurate assessment.”

“Are any of her friends helping?”

Pansy Parkinson. Quivering chin. Locked door. “Well, the difficulty is that neither the former Death Eaters nor the DA trust her. Her best remaining friend, Miss Greengrass, is unconscious. She’s been a bit… Well, as you said. An absolutely mess.”

“Damn.” Harry runs his hands through his hair. “Well, we’ll probably be coming to headquarters for a while. Maybe I can talk with her.”

“I’m sure that that would help,” mutters Remus, although he rather doubts it. “You’re coming home?”

“Well, that rather depends on our discussion tonight.” Harry’s eyes brighten.

“Oh?”

Harry just smiles.

“Well, are we ready to get to the main item on the agenda then?” Remus asks. “Don’t you want to know about—I don’t know—Eri Nott?”

“Ah,” Harry says, the smile becoming rather more diffuse. “Luna’s taken her in. She wrote me.”

“I see.” Remus looks over at Harry and considers him: a boy who was denied love for most of his childhood, who at thirteen couldn’t look at a pretty girl without all but falling off of his broom, and at seventeen he is seriously considering a _ménage à trois_. Amazing. “Well, you asked about the funerals.”

“Yeah. I really wanted to come, but Ron and Hermione—”

“Rightly thought that your presence was unhelpful and would have been unwelcome, in at least two of the cases.” Remus shakes his head. “And they were correct. Mr. Malfoy had no remaining relatives besides Nymphadora; she, Minerva, Alastor and I were the only mourners at his burial. We allowed a notice to be posted in the Prophet the next day, with none of the particulars. Severus…” It feels odd to speak his name without rancor. Without adolescent fury boiling back up. “It was surprising to see the response. His funeral too was kept fairly quiet, and yet several hundred people were there—mostly former Slytherins, but most of the Order were there. I think it was a bit of a relief for us all to know that he was dead, to be sure, but also to know that Albus’s trust in him was not altogether unwarranted.”

Harry grunts. He is staring at the floor, his eyes flicking back and forth. “Poor, nasty bastard. I can’t believe that he died to save _me._ ”

“As your father had risked his life to save him.”

A sad laugh bubbles up in Harry’s throat. “Good thing he didn’t leave any kids than.” He shakes his head. “So. Teddy. Teddy Nott. Luna wrote me, but…”

“It was quite remarkable, Harry.” Remarkable weather for an October Sunday. Remarkable turnout for a boy who probably considered himself all but friendless. Remarkable support for a girl who no one seemed to know but everyone seemed to care for. “Anthony Goldstein delivered a beautiful eulogy.”

Nodding, Harry sniffs.

“And then of course the whole party walked across the cemetery to attend Stan Shunpike’s burial.”

Harry laughs again; this one is angry and short. “Stan. I hope Scrimgeour feels good and rotten. Finally released and back on the job, what, a week or two? And then this.”

“He died defending the passengers.” Remus puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “He’s been awarded a posthumous Order of Merlin, Second Class.”

“Lot of good that does him.” Harry scowls like the October sky outside.

“True.” Remus pats him on the shoulder again; there is nothing else to be done. “True.”

Again Harry shakes his head. Again he becomes the warm, shy teen that Remus remembers. “So, Harry, I’m sure that you didn’t contact me so that we can discuss all of these sad events. What can I do for you?”

“I want to plan a full-scale assault on Malfoy Mansion.”

Remus’s head snaps to look at the boy beside him. The man. There is no bravado there, none of Fred and George’s cheek. He is serious. “You… you want to _attack_ Voldemort?”

“Yes.”

“But…” Madness. Madness. A part of Remus wants to run out of the room and down the tunnel and never look back.

“He had a number of means of rendering himself all but immortal. That’s what the three of us have been doing—it’s what Dumbledore and I were doing last year. We have destroyed all but one of those, and that one he keeps close at hand; we know where to find it. Ron says that we should strike before he finds out just how vulnerable he is, and I have to agree.”

“Ah.” Not madness, perhaps. But _bloody hell…!_ “ _That’s_ what you’ve been doing?” A thought comes to him. “ _That’s_ what you needed Charlie and Norbert’s help for?”

“Yeah,” answers Harry, the memory apparently the cause of the grin that further warms his features. “Yeah. Dragon fire. Amazing stuff. Don’t think Hermione’ll ever be the same, though.”

“Hermione?”

“She’s not a great fan of flying, you see. Ron and I would have _loved_ to ride on Norbert with Charlie, but she was the only one of us who could manage the spells to keep the… the objects floating and the explosions contained. We didn’t want anyone hurt the way that Dumbledore was—or Luna’s mum.”

“I see,” says Remus, though in fact he does not see much of anything. “If the objects have been destroyed, then, I’m not sure how I can—”

“Again, Ron was the one who thought of it, and I can’t believe I didn’t.” Harry turns toward Remus. “What we need, Remus, is more than the element of surprise. We need to know where they are and what they are doing. We need to be able to hit them where they can’t counterattack, so that I… So that we can be assured of winning. What I want you to do is to create a Marauder’s Map for the Malfoy house.”

“Oh!” In his wildest dreams, Remus never expected this. Never thought that the childish toy that they created to facilitate their rule-breaking would actually be of practical, urgent use. But of course… “Of course.”

Harry breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Great! What do you need? How long will it take? Will you have to go there?”

Remus raises a hand. “No. No. I… A week or two perhaps. The materials are mostly fairly easily come by. I shouldn’t _have_ to go. But I would need someone whose knowledge of the house was incredibly intimate—the refugees certainly are acquainted with it, some more than others, but none of them know all of its… eccentricities.” There are rumors of rooms… _play_ rooms, down in the cellar. Who knows what secrets…? “And of course, none of the Malfoys are available.”

“Ah.” Harry frowns for a moment and then lets forth a bark of laughter that would have done his godfather proud. He calls out loudly, “Dobby!”

With a loud _crack_ , a house-elf appears, clad from head to foot in an outfit of multi-colored socks. “Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir!”

“Good to see you, Dobby.” Harry is grinning as the excitable elf bounces from foot to foot.

“Oh, it is a pleasure to see Mr. Harry Potter, sir, too, Mr. Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry rests a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Dobby, do you know Remus Lupin?”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is knowing Professor Wolfy sir, though Professor Wolfy probably does not know Dobby.”

Remus grins at the creature. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dobby.”

“Oh,” squeaks the elf. “Professor Wolfy is too kind.”

“Dobby,” Harry says, clearly hoping to stave off a scene, “I’ve asked Professor Lupin to create a… a very detailed map of the Malfoys’ estate.” Turning to Remus he said, “Dobby was one of their house-elves for years. If anyone knows every crevice of that pile, it’s Dobby!”

The little elf’s enormous green eyes expand even further. “Oh, Dobby would be ever so pleased to help Professor Wolfy, sir! Dobby is knowing that house better than Dobby knows his own hands, sir!” He holds out one thin, sock-bangled arm and wiggles four incredibly long fingers. “Dobby has been ordered to close his fingers in every door and cupboard in that house! Dobby knows all of its secrets!”

“Wonderful!” says Remus before a sudden thought strikes him. “Of course, knowing where everything and everyone is won’t get us in. There’ll be all sorts of magical protections on the house and its owners maintained by—there are other elves there still, Dobby?”

“Five house-elves, Professor Wolfy, sir, but—”

“Well,” Harry says, “if we have to we can blast through the wards. I don’t want the elves to get hurt though.”

The elf blinked and looked at Harry as if he were mad. “Then Harry Potter only has to be ordering all of the elveses to leave, Mr. Harry Potter, sir.”

Remus looked at the elf; clearly he has been freed; perhaps it had affected his sanity, which didn’t bode well. “Dobby, only the owner can order the elves to leave.”

“Of course, Professor Wolfy, sir.” Now it is Remus’s sanity that the elf seems to be questioning.

Harry says placatingly, “Well, that would be…” Blinking, he looks up.

Remus shrugs.

Dobby says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Harry Potter, sir.”

“Yes, Dobby?”

The elf shakes his head. “No, sir, Harry Potter, sir. Mr. Harry Potter, sir, is the owner of Malfoy Mansion.”

“ _What!_ ” Remus finds himself shouting with Harry.

“Yes,” Dobby says, nodding wildly so that the socks on his ears flop all over. He stood up, and suddenly all of the twitching and verbal tics were gone. “When Mr. Draco Malfoy died, he was the last Malfoy, may their meal bear maggots, begging your pardon, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. The estate and all of the Malfoy holdings passed to the closest relatives, being Mrs. Narsilly Malfoy’s family. Since awful Mrs. Bawdytricks is gone with no childses and no husbandses, and Mrs. Dromedary Tonks is cut out, the closest relative in good standing was Mr. Sisyphus Black, who was also dead, and so the elves and the house and all of the gold belongs to his sole heir. Mr. Harry Potter, sir.”

“I—” Harry says, gaping, as much at the torrent of semi-intelligible words as at their meaning

“Dobby,” Remus says, head swirling, “are you _sure_? How can we be sure?”

Harry suddenly flashes a dazed grin. “Dobby, can you tell me the name of one of the elves that still lives at the house?”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Harry Potter, sir! There is Fetchins, who is Dobby’s sister, Harry Potter, and then there is Dobby’s brother Gob—”

“FETCHINS!” shouts Harry, and with another sharp _crack_ , another elf joins them, this one dressed in what looks to be the remains of an ancient tea cozy.

“Master Harry Potter has called Fetchins? Must Fetchins be punishing herself? What is Fetchins been doing wrong?” the elf says, bowing and trembling.

“Absolutely nothing, Fetchins!” crows Harry. “I have only just now found out that I have such excellent servants in my new house—your brother Dobby has been telling—”

“Dobby!” squeaks the little elf, looking at her brother, who is beaming broadly. Then she gasps. “Dobby is wearing _clothes_! What has Dobby been doing? Is Dobby being a bad elf?”

“No, Fetchins,” Harry says, “Dobby is an excellent elf and has been a very good friend to me.”

“ _Friend,_ ” gasps Fetchins, a look of awe and disgust mingled in her puppetlike face.

“It is being true, Fetchins, sister,” Dobby says. “Mr. Harry Potter is a _good_ master, he will not hurt his elveses like the nasty Malfoys, may their tea go cold.”

“Dobby!” Fetchins cries, abject fear pinching her oversized features.

“They is not our masters no more—not Dobby’s, nor Fetchins, nor none of our family!” Dobby says fiercely. “Dobby works were Dobby chooses, and Dobby chooses to help Harry Potter. Harry Potter is Dobby’s _friend._ ”

Fetchins toddles over to her brother and throws her arms around him. The two elves begin bawling on each other’s shoulders.

“Emotional lot,” Harry says with a huge grin.

“Can you blame them?” Remus says. “Working for the Malfoys can’t have been fun.”

“No,” Harry says, and the smile turns serious. When the two elves stop crying, Harry says, “Fetchins, will you relay a message to the others for me?”

“Yes, sir, Master Harry Potter, sir!” The little elf’s eyes are bright with pride at being able to be the first to serve the new master.

“Please tell all of them,” Harry says, before stopping and thinking. “Tell all of them to be careful. Tell them that they are to stay where they are and not to risk being hurt. That they are more important than the house to me.”

“Yes, sir, Master Harry Potter, sir!”

“That they are to obey all requests from my…. guests—until I say otherwise. But they are not to allow themselves to be punished or hurt. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, Master Harry Potter, sir!”

“Thank you, Fetchins.” Harry begins to dismiss her, but Remus has thought of something.

“Fetchins,” Remus muses, “is… He Who Must Not Be Named still drawing on the Malfoys’ gold?”

“On Master Harry Potter’s gold, sir, yes, sir. He is having the Gringotts’s key.”

“Ah.” Remus nods at Harry, who dismisses Fetchins. “Harry, there should be some Floo Powder hidden over that mantle. Do you mind?”

“Uh, no,” Harry answers, clearly curious.

Nodding, Remus bounds up off of the bed, finds just enough powder for the job, and places a Fire Call through to the Weasley newlyweds. Sticking his head into the green flame, he sees a rather disheveled looking sitting room. “Excuse me!” he calls. “Mrs. Weasley! Fleur!”

“ _Allo_?” calls a breathy voice from outside of the room. Fleur Weasley stumbles in, quickly pulling closed her nightgown, but not before Remus sees what look to be bite marks on a swollen belly. Good for them. “Ah. _Rémy_. It is good to see you.” She does not sound or look pleased.

“Thank you, Fleur,” Remus says. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your… rest.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “What can I do for you?”

Grinning, he says, “Harry has just discovered that he has come into possession of some rather large accounts. Do you think that you could arrange for them to be drained into his main vault—very slowly? Over the course, say, of a week or two, so that the people currently using those accounts won’t realize what’s happening?”

Fleur gets a clever look on her face—it is one she usually hides from view. “’Ave ze Death Eaters been playing with ‘Arry’s gold?” She tisks, and then smiles. “We cannot ‘ave zat, now can we?”

“No,” Remus says, and looks back at Harry, who is smiling at him, bemused. “No, we can’t have that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter art is adapted from Reallycorking, “H/R” — used with permission.
> 
> So, the ships here. Because the very first (good) multi-chapter fics that I ever read were Mieko Belle (aka auburn_crimson)'s giddily bittersweet Fairy Boys fics, which feature Remus and Sirius as a glam-rocking couple, I'm afraid that I—straight kid that I am—have always seen them as an item. Come on—once you think of it, it's hard to read the scenes in which they both appear in canon and not think, Hmmmmm. Likewise, I've always been rather fond of Remus/Lily (especially since the PoA film)—whether it's as a prologue to James/Lily and Remus/Sirius, as here, or semi-unrequited as in "Once Upon a Time." So... Sorry if I crossed anyone up there. ;-)


	35. To Roost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, the minutes seem like hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if you're not particularly interested in Harry/Ginny/Luna, but you've been reading along here rather than (or in addition to) following The Wisest Course at one of the OBHWF archives because you want the sex, sex, sex want the full experience that this fic offers... now might be a good time to jump ship, because the two versions of the fic differ from this chapter on in more than rating. I give you links and wish you well: [The Wisest Course at Phoenix Song](https://www.phoenixsong.net/fanfiction/story/5045/). That version of the fic is still, by the way, rated R/Mature.
> 
> If you want to stick with it here, I do promise you that there will be a clearly marked jumping off point that you can take to avoid the undiluted H/G/L...
> 
> Or you can just enjoy it, as I hope you will. ;-)
> 
> Warnings: Graphic sex and polyamory. Polyjuice. Flaming nargles!
> 
> Thanks to my beta aberforths_rug for squeeing at all the right times—and saying "yuck!" at all the right times too. ;-)

Ginny is breaking any number of promises—to her parents, to herself—but the one that matters most is the one that she made to Harry not to do this very thing. Not to chase after him.

But it’s Halloween, and things always get peculiar at Halloween around Harry, and everyone is acting very oddly. Her mother practically shoved Ginny out the door to spend the night with Luna, her mother who can’t stand the idea of her child in “that messy house.” Charlie hardly touched his lunch, and when Ginny Floo’d Bill, Fleur, who is showing more every day, was singing at the top of her lungs in French and growled when Ginny asked to speak to her brother. Bill evaded all of her questions monosyllabically, and that may have been because of tonight’s full moon, but even so…

Something’s happening. Ginny needs to find Harry. Even Luna said so.

And there’s something that she needs to tell him.

No one’s in the huge Grimmauld Place kitchen, so Ginny quickly sprints up the stairs—the place has been cleaned up a lot since the last time that she was here,

Anthony Goldstein is standing outside of one of the doors on the first floor, gently knocking. When he sees Ginny he stops.

“Where’s Harry’s room?” Ginny asks, out of breath more from the excitement of doing something forbidden than the short climb.

“Third floor, with your brother,” Anthony says, frowning. He starts to ask something or say something, but Ginny has no time for that; thanking him, she sprints on up the stairs.

He turns back to the door. “Daphne? Please? May I come in?”

On the second floor, outside of the room that she and Hermione once shared, two of the older Slytherins—Davis and Bullstrode—snarl at her, telling her to slow down, but really, she can’t. She has to see Harry.

When she reaches the third landing, she finds her brother slouched in front of the open doorway, his head clasped in his hands.

Two raised voices are echoing from the room out into the cavernous stairwell. “—wasn’t _throwing_ myself at him, Granger, you bloody prig—!”

“—at least _try_ to act like a civilized human being, Parkinson, or is that asking too much!”

Ron groans and buries his head even further. Ginny kneels down beside him, trying to peak through his fingers.

There is a feral snarl and Pansy Parkinson stomps out of the room between the siblings; her clothes hang loosely about her, yet drawn and pale though she may be there’s enough left that it’s obvious that she’s less than fully dressed.

“Oh, look, Weasley,” she sneers, “another one.” Bending down so that her still-considerable breasts are hanging on display—and her bum is in Ron’s face—she whispers loudly to Ginny, “Use your fingernails a lot—he likes that. Oh, and he says he likes you to be on top, but don’t believe him. He wants to be the one in charge, just like the rest of them.” She pats Ginny on the face, spins, and stomps down the stairs.

Ginny’s jaw drops as she stares at her brother.

“Hello, Ginny,” says Hermione in a falsely cheerful tone that would have done Umbridge proud.

“H’mione,” Ron pleads, looking up at her fury-white face, and with a ferocious growl Hermione slams his own door in his face.

“Wow,” Ginny says. It’s all that there is to say. Well, not all. “Ron? _Pansy_?”

“Don’t even _start_ , Ginny, please, come on,” he mutters. “I know you knew about it, Hermione wrote you, I know, so please, just please find another time to take the piss out of me, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. He sounds so thoroughly miserable that Ginny actually doesn’t have it in her to tease him. She must be growing up. “But… Bloody hell.” She pulls him over into a seated hug—his long, lank frame against her compact one.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He shakes his head against her shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, you sure pick them, that’s for sure,” says Ginny.

He laughs despondently.

“She’s not… I didn’t.” His voice, still low, is urgent. “We haven’t. Since before me and Hermione. But… She was, you know, upset. And we’ve all been trying to, you know, talk with her.”

Ginny can’t help a small tease. “Talk?”

“Yeah, _talk_ ,” he grumbles. “She’s so… She’s so _sad,_ and _angry_ , and it isn’t like she doesn’t have reasons to be, now is it? And none of the refugees seem to want to talk to her—even her best mate Greengrass, but then _she_ isn’t seeing anyone. So yeah, we’ve all been talking to her—Hermione, Harry, me.”

Ginny reaches up under his ear and smoothes away a smudge of scarlet lipstick; Ginny knows for a fact that Hermione would rather take double Divination than wear lipstick, especially deep red. “Hopefully, Harry and Hermione haven’t been snogging away with her,” she says, holding her finger up in front of his face.

He laughs a sad laugh. “Not a chance. Not me, either,” he explains quickly. “Just… talking. And then today she starts crying, you know? And bloody hell, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? So I put my arms ‘round her and…”

Ginny sits so that they are side by side. “And ended up with her tongue in your ear.”

He glances at her. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“And then…”

“And then Hermione walked in.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Ron.”

“Yeah.” He lets out a long sigh, his head thumping back against the doorjamb. “Hell.”

They sit there. The silence from the other side of the door is oppressive.

Finally, Ginny says, “Remember the two-queen endgame you tried to show me and Harry this summer?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s time to commit, brother of mine.”

“I know,” he grunts, and then turns to look at her more fully. “I have.”

“Then I think, Ron, that you need to go through that door and let _her_ know that.”

He nods.

“Ron?” Ginny finds herself approaching her brother more tentatively than she has in years.

“What?” he grumbles. “Why Pansy? What was I thinking? Was it any good?”

She blinks at him, snorts and puts a hand on his knee. “No. No. I… Is it possible to love two people?”

He looks back at her, mouth open, brow working. “Blimey, Ginny…. Is it possible to love _one_?”

They look at each other, each a bit shocked, and then they laugh, and hug.

“So?” Ginny asks once they’ve settled back to merely giggling. “ _Was_ it any good?”

Ginny knows Ron’s faces: the intent, chess-playing look; the gittish, I’m-going-to-make-a-mess-and-you-can’t-stop-me look; the impish I’ve-just-taken-one-of-your-chocolates look.

This look is none of those. It is thoughtful and sad. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, it was.” Then he jerks his head toward the door and whispers. “This? It’s… harder. And it’s less about, you know…”

“The sex?”

He rolls his eyes at her, though she knows that’s what he expected her to say—she has always been the one to say the things that he can’t. Just as she is for Harry. “Yeah. That. But with Hermione it’s…” He blinks. There are no words. With a shake of his head, Ron stands, takes her hand and helps her to her feet. “Oi. What are you _doing_ here, anyway? Do Mum and Dad…?”

“No,” she answers simply. “I… I’m looking for Harry. I need to… to tell him something.”

He looks at her with his Are-you-speaking-a-foreign-language? face. He uses that one with Ginny a lot. “He’s not here. Funny. I thought he was looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Well, said he was going off to see Luna, but what reason would Harry possibly have to do that?”

Suddenly, Ginny doesn’t feel anywhere nearly as warm as she did a moment before.

***

Arthur rubs his eyes, looking down at the two maps: one created by Remus and the house-elf Dobby, names moving around the house, so _many_ of them; and the other drawn by Ron, its swirls of moving arrows and shunting boxes playing and replaying the actions that they’ve planned over the last manic weeks. The second looks like nothing more than a slightly more complicated version of one of the Quidditch plays that Ronnie was always doodling…

“We sure this is going to work?” grumbles Moody.

Dedalus Diggle, master strategist through three wars, giggles. “Oh, my! One is never sure of _any_ plan, you know!” Minerva sighs deeply. The effusive old wizard pats her hand cheerfully. “Nonetheless, the boy shows real genius. Beautiful bones, this strategy, and some of the tactical details—really, as long as the central balance falls in our favor”—he points a long finger at the place where Harry Potter and Voldemort clash, over and over—“then the losses should be quite acceptable.”

“You can say that, Dedalus? Were the losses acceptable in the Ardenne?” Minerva asks, and Arthur is shocked to hear how frightened and angry she is. She _never_ talks about the war against Grindelwald unless she’s had a glass or two of Firewhisky in her.

Dedalus’s smile does not lessen. “Of course, my dear. We won.”

***

“Are you sure you want to do this, Susan?” Neville’s eyes—so sweet and warm—seem to melt over Susan.

She strokes his cheek. “Of course I am.” Leaning forward, she kisses him lightly on the lips and they both shudder.

Once their lips part his gaze is softer, but just as solicitous. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Silly,” she says, kissing him again. “I’d do anything for you. And it’s not like this is exactly going to be an ordeal, you know.”

“Merlin, I hope not.”

“It’ll be fine, Neville. It’ll be lovely. You’ll see.” His hand trembles in hers; she gives it a squeeze. Susan knows that if it weren’t for tonight, for the danger and the possibility that it will all _end_ , that she never would have pushed this with him, but it is time.

“Come on then,” he says, expression suddenly grim. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I love you, Neville.” She has said this before, but it has not yet got old.

He smiles, the old, adorable, awkward grin. “Love you, too.”

Hand in hand, they walk up the stairs and through the front door.

There they find Augusta Longbottom waiting for them in the front parlor—as they knew that they would at teatime.

“Gran,” Neville says with nary a hint of a stammer, “may I introduce Susan Bones? She’s…” He looks at her as if at a newly discovered species of orchid. “She’s my girlfriend.”

The old woman’s eyes widen; the hard-edged features soften. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bones. I have known your family for a long time.”

As Neville’s grandmother turns to fetch fresh cakes and tea, Susan whispers, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

His grin is radiant, transcendent. “Nah. With you, I can do anything.”

Suddenly it is Susan’s turn to feel shy.

***

“So, Fred,” Lee says, pulling on one of his dreadlocks nervously, “we ready to go?”

Angelina and Alicia both look up from their battered copies of _Quidditch Quarterly_. There are still a dozen or so last-minute Halloween shoppers, including old Perkins, who always loves to drop a Galleon or two on Muggle magic tricks every Friday afternoon. “Store’s closing in five minutes!” Fred calls, eliciting groans of disappointment from some of the kidlets, and relief from their parents. “You lot handle the till,” he tells his friends, “I’ll get George and we’ll close up.”

Pushing through the curtain into the back room, Fred finds his brother—or rather his brother’s lower half—poking from beneath Verity’s magenta robes in front of their work bench. Verity’s eyes are crossed, but she still manages to stammer out, “G-george… s-stop!”

Fred’s twin pops out from under her robes with the look of studied innocence that they have been honing for years, but it cuts no mustard with Fred—not under these circumstances. “So sorry to interrupt,” Fred says.

“No problem,” George answers breezily, though he seems to be having a difficult time standing straight. Verity’s face is buried behind his shoulder.

“Time to close up and go,” Fred says and turns.

He can hear his brother kiss Verity—on the face somewhere, Fred hopes—and say, “Consider that a down-payment, luv.”

 _May you be around to follow through on the rest of the deal,_ Fred thinks as he walks into the front room and begins counting out the till.

***

Harry stumbles up the stairs to where Mr. Lovegood suggested Luna’s room might be; his heart is in his throat, but it is still hard not to gawk at the various oddly-shaped skeletons scattered about, some in glass cases, some lying atop back issues of _The Quibbler_.

Turning to the right, Harry spies a door painted with vines and trees; fantastical birds swoop from branch to branch. A legend at the top announces _Luna’s Garden_.

Taking a deep breath, he knocks.

“Come in!” call two voices.

 _Them,_ Harry thinks, and fighting down the panic, opens the door.

The room is a jungle—a mess, yes, but also actually decorated as a rain forest, complete with a dense canopy that makes the ceiling seem both cozy and less than solid.

On the bed in the corner, Ginny sits with her arms around… around a boy. A thin, weedy, saturnine boy who Harry watched die weeks before. Even as he feels jealousy begin to rise, incredulity floods through him. “Wh-what…?”

Two sets of eyes blink up at him. “Hullo, Harry,” says Ginny somewhat somberly. “This isn’t Theodore Nott, obviously, it’s his sister Eri.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Oh.” This makes no sense at all—though Luna told Harry that Eri Nott is now living with her and her father.

“It’s Polyjuice Potion,” explains Theodore—or Eri. “We’ve all be working on potions; now that Professor Slughorn is dead there is no potions master at the school, and so we all felt the need to keep our skills up. And we were just talking about Professor Dumbledore…”

Ginny gives Eri a squeeze. “How he always said that those that we love never truly leave us.”

“And I thought perhaps that I would see if taking that literally might not be a good way to grieve,” Eri says.

“I see,” Harry says, though he doesn’t really—still, he’ll take it on trust. It is the kind of logic that Harry has come to expect—and enjoy—in Luna Lovegood, and one of the reasons that he knows the younger Nott and Luna have become so close.

Eri gives Ginny a hug back. Even knowing that this isn’t a boy—that there is nothing even vaguely romantic or sexual going on between these two—it is difficult for Harry to watch. “Also,” says the voice that Harry heard so rarely while its owner was alive, “I was curious to see what it was like for Vince Crabbe to spend so much of last year as me, you know. To be honest, I think it is rather disconcerting and unpleasant.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Harry, thinking of his own stint as Gregory Goyle.

“Well,” says Eri in her brother’s flat voice, “I should probably leave the two of you alone.”

“Wait,” Harry says. “Eri. I… I am so sorry about your brother.”

“Yes,” Eri answers, eyes steady in a way that Theodore’s never were. “You know all about loss, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Harry’s own eyes flick down, and then to Ginny’s, which seem to be boring a hole in the center of his chest. “Still… He… He was trying to save my life.”

“Actually,” Eri says, reaching out and touching Harry’s far cheek, “he was trying to save mine. Good bye.” Boy’s lips touch Harry’s closer cheek, and Nott is gone.

Shaking off confusion, Harry looks back up at Ginny; though she was not who he intended to see today, he cannot say that he has not been dreaming of seeing her. Her expression is sad, and yet oddly peaceful. “Hi,” he says.

“Harry,” Ginny answers, her eyes floating up to meet his…

And suddenly he has crossed the room. Her face is in his hands, his mouth on her lips. She gives a squeak of surprise, but as he deepens the kiss the sound melts to a low, familiar moan.

Harry did not intend to fuck Ginny today—did not intend to see her at all before tonight—but now that he has seen her, he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to take advantage of it. He presses his body up against hers, his nascent erection pushing through his trousers against the crotch of Ginny’s jeans. It’s amazing to him how quickly she can get him to this place—her smell, the texture of her lips, the arch of her belly against his. Even the taste of the heavy fruit juice that she has been drinking sparks desire in him. Lips still on lips, he grinds his pelvis against hers and she gasps. The monster in Harry’s chest, that old, familiar friend, howls its approval as he runs a hand down from her cheek to her breast and begins to explore it, massage it—feel the tiny tack of flesh in the middle respond to his touch.

“ _Ah!_ ” she gasps, pushing her breast into his hand.

Emboldened—beyond thinking—he kisses his way over to her ear and runs the other hand down to the button of her jeans. He begins to yank at it.

“Oh!” she cries, pressing up against him.

The button opens, and he doesn’t even bother with the zipper—he simply pushes his hand down the front of her knickers, thrilling at the moist heat that his fingers find there.

“Wait!” she cries, though her cunt presses up into his hand. “Stop!”

“Don’t want to wait,” he groans into the angle of her chin and circles her very stiff clit.

“AH!” Her arm grasps his forearm but does not dislodge his finger. “Please, please, Harry, please, just, stop—feels _sooooo—_ OH, please, want— _huh—_ want to talk!”

“ _Talk?_ ” moans Harry, sliding his fingers along the length of her very wet cunt so that his palm presses against her clit.

“Yes,” she squeaks, “yes, please, rather a lot, please…”

He stops his hands from moving as they so long to do, leans his head against hers and bites in a howl. It is probably the hardest thing that he has ever done. “’Kay. We talk. Okay. Ginny.”

Her head swivels, separating from his and peering. “Ginny?”

“Ginevra?” he grunts. “Please, Gin, what—?”

“Why ever would you think that I was Ginny?”

He jerks his own head back and looks at her: she is staring at him quizzically. “Why would—?”

She cocks her head to one side, her expression one of bemused fascination.

Suddenly, it feels as if Harry has stepped into an icy river. “Luna?”

She raises one eyebrow. “Of course.”

Harry falls off of her bed in his effort to disentangle himself. He bangs his elbow, but that pain seems almost not worth noticing; he scuttles back away from the gorgeous redhead with one breast exposed, her trousers half-undone, and a noticeable dark spot between her legs. “ _Shit!_ ” he cries. “Luna, shit, I’m so—shit!—so sorry…”

“Oh,” Luna says, red eyelashes blinking slowly. “I see. Well, that answers one of the questions that I wanted to ask you.”

“What?” Harry blurts. He hasn’t yet got past his humiliation—he can’t imagine what questions she could possibly have wanted to discuss.

“Well,” she says, face calm though Ginny’s body continues to show all of the signs that Harry has come to know so well—signs of sexual arousal that he has literally dreamt about over the past two and a half months, “I was curious whether you actually find me sexually attractive, or whether it was just that I was wearing Ginny’s body, but I suppose we’ve answered that question.”

“What?” he asks again. “No! I… Luna. Luna.” It seems surreal to be calling this face and body by that name, for all that she is _talking_ like Luna. “I do. I do find you attractive. I thought that you were pretty even before—at the Slug Club party, and at Bill and Fleur’s wedding and all, and since that letter…” In his horrible, horrible mind’s eye, he is seeing Ginny’s tongue running along those bare, pale shoulders, lithe fingers unpeeling that silver dress…

Luna purses Ginny’s lips—it does not look as natural as it does on Luna’s own wider mouth, her own fuller lips. Lips. Harry remembers kissing those lips. “I see. May I ask then why you reacted so violently to the idea of touching me?”

“I…” Harry shakes his head, but no—the image of the tongue on the shoulders, the memory of his lips on Luna’s own, and the very fresh sensation of moist, warm flesh beneath his fingers will not leave. “I almost raped you, Luna.”

“Really?” Ginny’s eyes fly wide—again, a look that seems perfectly right for Luna, _cute_ even, but on Ginny just looks… wrong. “Goodness. It seemed to me rather as if you wanted to have sex with me.”

“I _did_.”

“And I rather wanted to have sex with you, though I thought we should talk first. So it wouldn’t have been rape, would it?”

“But!” Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He lifts his hand to his hair, but it carries with it the heavy, heady scent of Ginny and that doesn’t help. “I… It wasn’t…”

“I am sorry, Harry—you and Ginny are rather more informed about this sort of thing. Perhaps I misunderstood you.” She lets loose a long, breathy sigh that sends shivers up Harry’s spine. “You see, you and she seem to know all of these terribly clear rules that I don’t about when it is all right to kiss, or have sex, and when it isn’t. I thought perhaps we had simply reached one of those circumstances where it wasn’t taboo for you and I to have sex.”

His eyes open again of their own accord. The shirt is still pulled up, the bra yanked down; a red nipple still winks at Harry and it is driving him quite out of his mind. “I…” Harry mumbles. “I… thought you were Ginny.”

“So…” she puzzles, “if I had been Ginny instead of being me, it would have been all right, but since it was me it would have been rape? I don’t understand that—unless you didn’t want to have sex with me at all, which is why I assumed that you didn’t.”

“NO!” shouts Harry. “No—I… I _assumed_ you were Ginny, and I was probably—no, I _was_ pushing too hard, even with her, but Luna, she’s…. Well, she and I have been, you know, _together_ before and so I know what she likes, and if I’d known it was you, I’d never have just _assumed_ that it was okay to shove my hand down your knickers or up your shirt, and bloody hell, Luna, I’m _so_ sorry!”

“Why?” Luna asks. One hand is stroking lazily up the inside of her thigh, and _ohhhhh…_ “I thought it was actually quite marvelous. Even when I’ve masturbated I have to say that it’s never made me feel quite that way.”

Harry feels as if he is choking on his tongue—as if one of the twins has fed him one of their Tongue-Ton Toffees and he is about to pass out from lack of air.

“You confuse me sometimes, Harry. You say that you are attracted to me and yet when you find out that you are in fact caressing me you jump back as if Nargles were taking rather painful bites at your fingers.” She pulls Ginny’s knees up to Ginny’s lovely chest, and suddenly Harry can breathe again. “If you want to, when I’ve changed back in another forty-five minutes or so you can touch me like that. I would like that a lot.”

No. Back to not breathing. “I. Erm. Would too. Like that.”

“Oh, good.”

“But, Luna, Ginny and I—”

“Oh, yes!” Suddenly, the familiar brown eyes sparkle brightly. “I wanted to ask you—in your letters you never answered whether you minded that she and I kiss. _Do_ you mind? Because if you don’t, I would like that an awful lot too.”

“I…” Harry takes a deep breath and walks over to the bed—against all of his instincts and better judgment, he sits beside Luna. “No, I don’t mind at all. At all. I… That’s why I wanted to talk with you today.”

She peers at him quizzically. “I see.”

“Luna…” It is impossible to call this face by that name, truly. It is impossible to tell this face what Harry needs to tell her. He looks down at the rug, which is a stylized Devil’s Snare pattern. Yes. “Luna. You love Ginny, right.”

“Yes,” says Ginny’s voice.

“And she loves you too, you said.”

“Oh, yes.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I… Luna, I need you to, to do something for me. To promise me something.”

“Of course, Harry.” The voice is warm and clear and wonderful and somehow that fails to make any of this any easier. “I love you too, you know.”

For some reason, that statement squeezes the air out of Harry’s chest. It is not news—she wrote to him saying as much. And yet Harry has been a stranger to love through so much of his life that the weight of such a declaration cannot help but overwhelm him. “I… Thank you, Luna. Thank you.” To his own ear, Harry’s voice sound’s quivery and ridiculous, like the men on those terrible television programs that Aunt Petunia always seemed to be watching when Harry was locked in his closet: _Oh, Veronica. I love you so. Oh!_

“It is all right, Harry,” Luna says—Ginny’s voice says. “You do not have to say that you love me too when you don’t.”

“But I _do_ ,” Harry groans. His head in his hands, he is staring down at the rug at his feet, searching for answers in leaves and yarn. “I don’t understand any of this Luna, please, don’t think I know what the hell I’m talking about, I haven’t the slightest clue about love or any of it. I know what I told you this summer—you’re one of my very best friends, and I trust you as much as I trust anyone, and it’s different from what I feel for Ron or Hermione or Neville, but it’s different from what I feel for Ginny too, only I can’t even begin to tell you how because I don’t _know_.” The bases of his palms bang against either temple, pushing his glasses up so that he can’t really see, but it doesn’t matter. “I don’t… I know that I want to help you, I want you to be happy and safe, and I want to help you and protect you and keep people from hurting you.”

“How lovely. Of course, Harry,” says the voice, “you want to protect everyone.”

He gives a sad laugh. “Yeah. I guess. But I told you: you’re funny and kind and smart and you make me think of things in new ways. You’ve helped me when no one else could. And yes, Luna, I find you very, very, very attractive. Believe me. The idea of touching you and kissing and, er, that, it’s very, very… lovely.”

“Oh,” Luna sighs, shifting on the bed. “How nice.”

“And it’s true, the idea of you and Ginny, I can’t get it out of my head, which is none of my bloody business.”

“Why not?” she asks, her voice sounding oddly sharper.

He ignores her, staring on at the blur of the carpet because he has come to his purpose in visiting. “That’s the point, I think. I do. Love you. I _trust_ you. With my life. And—even more—with hers.”

“With Ginny’s?”

“Yeah.” It is a relief to say it.

“I’m not sure that I understand.”

“I…” Just say it, Potter. “Something’s happening tonight. There’s going to be… I’m going to be doing something dangerous. And I promised Ginny that I would try to come back to her, and I will—I want to do that. But…” Images of Voldemort’s white, inhuman face, memories of the Cruciatus and of the serpent in Harry’s mind at the Ministry—Harry groans with the effort to keep himself from breaking into a fit of sobbing.

“But you can’t promise that you will come back to us.” Not sharp, this time, the voice is calm.

“No,” Harry says.

“And you would like me to promise that I will take care of Ginny,” she says, “if you cannot.”

“That you will love her as she deserves to be loved,” Harry finds himself saying emphatically, “whether I come back or not.” He looks up at the girl on the bed. She is smiling easily, her eyes focused over his head. “Can you do that, Luna? Can you promise me?”

“Of course,” Luna answers, her smile broadening.

“Thank you.” Harry feels as if one of the last great burdens has been removed from his shoulders. He reaches out and touches Luna’s foot. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As if under the Imperius Curse, Harry’s body moves up the bed and threads its wiry arms around Ginny’s body, and Luna within. It feels awkward—he never feels comfortable hugging people, even people he loves, and Luna herself is squeaking again in surprise. And yet too it feels very right. “I wish,” Harry says, “I only wish I could tell her what she means to me. I feel like I never really told her how much I love her.”

Luna strokes Harry’s cheek with Ginny’s hand, adjusting his glasses. “Well, you could do it right now.”

He blinks at her suddenly clear features.

“After a fashion, I suppose you’ve already done that,” Luna muses. “She has after all been standing right behind you for the past few minutes.”

Blinking again at her wide, brown eyes, he spins in her arms to find her double standing at the foot of the bed: arms crossed, eyes sharp and narrow, a wicked smirk on her thin lips.

“So, Harry,” Ginny says—and there is no doubting that this is indeed Ginny. “ _Love_ me, do you?”

***

Your hands tremble as you pull on the now-patched Acromantula-silk black robes that you wore the night that _he_ died. You take a deep breath, and when that fails to steady them, you ball them into fists and grind your teeth together to steady your chin. You look a fright, you know that, but that’s not the point, and honestly, it’s good enough.

You stride out of your room, surprising Millie and Tracey who look too shocked even to snarl at you, and march up the stairs. You pause at the door, rehearsing what you have to say for the thirtieth time, but you know that if you stop now to think you may never do this and you have to—you _have_ to. And so you push open the door and start into your speech, “Look, Weasley, I…”

There are two squawks of outrage from the bed.

“Bloody hell!” You spin to face the wall, but it does not erase the vision of the sweaty, freckled chest, bollocks and legs that you’ve daydreamed about so much, nor the flushed, jiggling back and backside that you’d never given so much as a thought to. “Guess you let her have the top after all, Ron. My mistake.”

“Do you _mind_ , Pansy?” groans the Mudblood, and the groan does not sound entirely one of annoyance.

“Just… Just a minute of your precious bloody time, all right?” you say. “Look, I know you both hate me—everyone here hates me, which is fine, because _fuck you all_ —but I know you lot have something planned for tonight, and I want to be there. I want to fight. I’ve already lost everything to Lord Zinzing and his merry band, and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let anyone else blow up that whole bloody nest of basilisks while I sit here banging on Daphne’s bloody door hoping she’ll bloody let me in.” You realize that you are screaming. And crying. It is just as well that you are facing away from them. ( _Freckles and red hair… Teeth on your ear… “I care.”_ ) “So. I’m going. And that’s it.”

“All right,” says Ron, his voice low and bed-roomy the way that you remember it, and that sound is the thing that really, really hurts the most.

“Thank you,” says Granger, and you are shocked to hear her say it to you of all people.

“Welcome,” you mutter and start to go out the door.

There’s a deep groan from Ron, and Hermione squeaks, “P-pansy?”

“Yeah?”

“Could… Could you cast— _ah!_ —a Locking Charm. After… P-please?”

***

Since Luna’s letter reached him last month—Ganymede dropped it in his porridge at a camping site in Northumbria—Harry has been fighting not to let his idiot brain fill with images of the two girls kissing, caressing. Of the three of them sharing a bed, and making full use of it.

Yet in his wildest imagination he hadn’t visualized this.

Ginny—the real Ginny—is leaning against the headboard, her eyes focused on his. Luna-Ginny sprawls against her, naked between the real Ginny’s still-clothed legs, eyes closed, whimpering as Ginny gently strokes the pussy that she knows so well. “Come on, Harry. Help me. You know how to make this body feel good.”

“Er…” It knows how to make him feel good, there is no doubt about that. “I… You’re doing very nicely, I think.”

Ginny laughs and Luna gasps. “Well, I should know how, Merlin knows. Feels funny to do this and not get the benefit, you know?”

“I…” _I could give you the benefit,_ he wants to say. But he cannot. “I guess.”

“Come on, Harry,” Ginny says, and Harry knows that she will outlast him here, but he cannot manage to let go. “Don’t you like this body?”

 _FUCK!_ “Love it.”

“And Luna?” she continues, eyes blazing. “You said you loved her, didn’t you.”

“Yes,” he grants. “I did. I do.”

“Then show her,” she says, and slips a finger inside of Luna, causing the mirror-body to arch up against the intrusion.

“Why?” he asks, and he knows that he has reached his last line of resistance—he doesn’t even know why he is resisting any more, only that it feels wrong to have something that you fantasized about suddenly offer itself to you, and in a form you never would have considered…

“I have a reason, Harry,” Ginny says. “Honest. And she has a simple one too. Come on. Taste her. Fuck her. Do you want him to, Loony?”

She slips another finger in, and Luna moans.

Whether it is the moan or the voice or the reasoning Harry cannot tell, but just like that all of his discipline leaves him. He leans forward on the bed and sucks Luna’s big toe into his mouth; she squeals and her thighs tighten around Ginny’s hand.

Harry kisses his way up the familiar, freckled legs, and they flop open again. His eyes, however, remain on Ginny’s beaming face.

“See, Harry?” she says. “We made her come once already.”

Licking up along the inside of the knee, he pleads silently.

“Oh, yeah, Harry,” Ginny purrs. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance with me too.”

As Harry digests all of this—as he licks and nibbles his way up the inside of Luna’s borrowed thigh—Ginny removes the two fingers from Luna’s cunt, and Luna groans, “No, Ginny, please, please!”

“Shh,” Ginny says, running her fingers, moist and sticky, up to berry-bright nipples, where she pinches and strokes. “Harry’s going to make you feel very nice now, aren’t you, love?”

Grunting affirmation, Harry leans the last short distance to the open lips before him: smell and texture, taste and heat, he has been dreaming of eating this cunt for months—literally dreaming—and yet as he runs his tongue up her lips and sucks her clit into his mouth, Luna comes again, loudly and violently, and where Ginny would push up into him seeking _more_ , Luna jerks away.

“OH!” she cries, “Oh, my! Stop! Please! I…”

Harry pushes up onto his hands and knees and begins to kiss his way up Luna’s freckled puppy belly; she quivers and gasps at each contact but does not push again.

“I never knew my stomach was so… _round_ ,” Ginny says, and when Harry looks up she looks shy.

“Silly,” Luna murmurs, head still thrown over Ginny’s shoulder, “your belly is very sexy. Isn’t it, Harry?”

He nods, inserting his tongue into Luna’s belly button, and as she squirms, Ginny grins, blushing.

When Harry reaches the top of his climb, he finds two faces to kiss, and kisses them each in turn. When he was younger—fourth year, third—he had fantasies about taking both of the Patil sisters to bed. But _this…_

Ginny begins to move out from under Luna, and Luna’s eyes finally open. Harry kisses her again, pressing his whole body against her. This is Ginny’s body, yes, and a wonderful body, but it is without question Luna that he is kissing. “Luna,” Harry murmurs between kisses, “I want… I want… If Ginny wants to, later, I want to make love to you while you’re _you_ , okay? Because as much as I don’t think I can wait much more here, I…”

“Trust me, Potter,” whispers Ginny in his ear as she unbuttons his jeans and yanks them down to his knees, “you’ll get your chance with that body too. I want that too. Trust me.” She steps back off of the bed.

Turning his head, Harry whispers, “I do.” Turning his head back to the other Ginny-face, he asks, “L-luna? May I?”

She just nods, but does not move to help as Ginny has always done—she seems overwhelmed. Paralyzed.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, reaching down between them, and taking his cock in his hand. “It won’t hurt at all. Ginny’s body has done this before.”

“Oh,” Luna says, voice tiny. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Relax,” Ginny calls from the desk at the end of the bed. “Breathe.”

Harry runs his cock up and down the length of her vulva for lubrication; he stares down into Luna’s scared-rabbit eyes and whispers, “I love you.” And then he thrusts in.

It is interesting taking the same body’s virginity twice. Harry was scarcely conscious the first time that he and Ginny had sex, but this time he recognizes the conflicted impulses in her body—fear fighting to keep him out, desire fighting to pull him in. Stopping his pelvis, he leans down and takes a tiny nipple in his mouth.

Luna lets out a loud _“AHHH!_ ” and the muscles in her cunt release, allowing him in—inviting him in.

Harry begins to thrust again slowly into her, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, his hands reaching around her small handful of bum to stroke the lips of her cunt as he plows through them.

“Told you, didn’t I, Luna?” says Ginny.

“Yes!” howls Luna—not coming yet but close, as Harry is himself.

“I told her your hands and mouth never stop,” Ginny continues, her hand reaching from behind and stroking his tight testicles… Only…

Only those fingers. And that voice.

Luna’s eyes are wide but not focused on Harry, and he turns…

Turns to see Ginny shuddering as she finishes the transfiguration into Luna’s naked form, breasts swelling out, hips rounding.

Silvery eyes narrow wickedly. “Told you you’d get your chance with this body soon enough,” Ginny says.

***

Dolores Umbridge hums happily to herself as she toddles up the marble stairs to Gringotts Bank. This has been a regular part of her end-of-workweek routine for the past four months, and it gratifies both her Hufflepuff loyalty to her one-time schoolmate Narcissa and her well-disciplined sense of nest-building. Shifting the bag to her opposite hand, she smiles her warmest smile at the dreadful creature guarding the front door; it has always given her palpitations to see these jumped-up creatures got up in livery as if they were human, but of course her good breeding forbids that she show her disgust.

The goblin returns her smile with a razor-toothed grin, and Dolores has to force down a surge of distaste as it ushers her through the doors.

She approaches the closest cashier, who nods deferentially. “Madam Umbridge,” he says, his inhuman articulators mangling her name, “it is good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Dolores answers as brightly as she can—she has never bothered to learn the goblins’ names, since they all look the same to her, and since they scarcely care for her condescension, the greedy creatures. They only care for gold, and of that, she has access to plenty. “Vault number 317,” she says quietly, slipping the key onto the desk.

“As usual, of course,” the goblin grins, gesturing for one of the ushers. “Griphook!”

Dolores loathes the stomach-churning descent to the vault. Loathes the wild plunge; loathes the proximity of the goblin; and loathes the awareness of the drop, first on one side and then on the other. And yet to take care of a favor for a wealthy, well-connected classmate like Narcissa Black Malfoy, Dolores is happy to endure such mortification.

She calms herself by anticipating her usual Friday night routine: deposit the bag with gold and key inside in its usual spot in the back of the KwikSpell offices—offices that she would never admit that she knows well—and if a Galleon or ten happen to fall from the bag and into her robes, who knows how that happened? Then dinner at the Leaky Cauldron and home to a bubble bath and a nice ice cream sundae.

The miserable ride ends and Dolores wobbles out of the cart, panting in what she can only hope is a somewhat dignified manner.

“Key,” says the goblin.

She hands it over and instantly feels the anticipation with which close proximity to the huge piles of gold and jewels always fills her rising, quite overpowering the nausea of the dreadful descent. The sort of wealth that a faithful civil servant never comes into contact with. Galleons by the cubic rod. Emeralds and diamonds by the bushel. Magical artifacts by the…

The door opens, and the goblin grins his most terrifying grin, and suddenly Dolores’s stomach sinks further than any helter-skelter ride through the bowels of Gringotts could have caused it to.

Brick. Vast expanses of brick.

And a tiny, forlorn pile in the far corner.

Heart thudding, Dolores stumbles in, drops to her knees beside the remainder. Gold, yes. A little. She begins to count it into her satchel as has been her wont.

Four Galleons. Eighteen Sickles. Eighty-two Knuts. Plus what looks to be a bronze French Poing shoved into the mortar— verdigris, it looks to be at least couple of centuries old, perhaps it is worth something.

Two thousand, four hundred and ninety-four Galleons, a Sickle and four Knuts shy of the request that came to her this morning in the usual manner: a lovely gateau—strawberry, her favorite—with the amount written in icing in what Dolores could have sworn that she recognized as Narcissa Black Malfoy’s curlicue script. Eaten now. Long gone. And the key that was baked inside now in the door.

“Finished?” asks the goblin, its sneer suddenly intensely menacing.

“Yes,” Dolores manages to say. Finished indeed.

As the cart begins its rather less meteoric rise, Dolores Umbridge finds that her pulse is rising with it. She is not stupid, no matter what some may say—she has recognized that Narcissa Malfoy has been incommunicado since before their _arrangement_ began, that Lucius was already sadly dead in Ministry custody and Draco, poor boy, apparently betrayed by some of his friends. She is not such a fool not to know that the account must have changed hands. Nor such a fool as not to suspect just whom she has been providing Galleons for. It has been, to this point, a pleasant, mutually advantageous arrangement. To this point.

As the cart skids to a stop and she is shoved all but bodily back out into the lobby, the lightness of her bag—usually so heavy and musical and solid at this point—terrifies her. Who knows what spies Lord Thingy might have? And horrid Minerva and her horrid Order?

Holding the nearly empty bag against her chest like a shield, she minces towards the front steps and then thinks better of it. Peering around the lobby of the bank, her usually friendly smile a rictus of panic, Dolores sees threats everywhere.

If she deposits less than the expected amount in the KwikSpell offices, she has little doubt that she will not survive the weekend.

There is a boisterous explosion of noise from the front door. The accursed Weasley twins enter, flanked by several of their cronies, straining to Levitate a money box the size of a steamer trunk between them. _Brutes. Cretins._

_GOLD._

For a brief moment, Dolores considers overpowering the hated Weasleys and their sycophants, grabbing their ill-got gold, and making a run for it.

But no—Dolores has not got where she is by dueling. _Not ladylike_ , she can hear her mother say.

And the Weasleys are not inconsiderable practitioners of jinxes and hexes.

No.

Dolores finds herself stumbling desperately away from the entrance with no idea of where she is going until her hips slam up against a low wooden desk.

“May I help you?” rasps a low, goblinish voice.

Delores spins—wobbling as she does—and finds a smirking goblin behind a brass sign reading _Travel Services_.

“Yes!” she pants. “Yes! I wish to take a holiday. Immediately. A long trip.”

The goblin sniffs in what is apparently amusement. “Of course, madam. And where does madam wish to go?”

Dolores thinks of the Death Eater gold that has augmented her meager savings considerably over the past few months. Thinks of black robes and white masks, of red hair and green eyes and beams of green light. “Anywhere. Far, far away.”

“Certainly, madam.” Grinning shark-like, the goblin grabs a handful of brochures. “The Argentine is lovely at this time of year. It is spring on the Pampas. Perhaps a lovely equestrian—”

“No horses,” Dolores gasps. “No horses.” But yes. Far, far away.

***

He is riding her—riding Luna on her hands and knees, Ginny in Luna’s pale body beneath them both and Ginny’s tongue (Luna’s long tongue) licks cunt and balls and clit and cock, and Luna screams, and Harry howls, emptying himself into Luna’s cunt. Ginny’s cunt.

As they collapse to the bed, careful not to fall on the blonde below, Ginny pushes up on one elbow. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” her lovers both agree.

“Now, Harry, are we going to get any more crap about _should_ and _shouldn’t_ here, or are the two of you going to fuck _me_?”

Harry grins. He is in bed with two gorgeous, naked girls. How can he complain? “My little friend does need a breather.”

“Well,” Ginny says, kneeling up on the bed, stretching her borrowed body, running fingers over the unfamiliar curves, “I’m sure we can find some way to occupy ourselves while your _little friend_ comes back to the land of the living.” Each long hand runs over one round cheek. “Hell, Loony. Your bum really is magnificent.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Luna stares, apparently transfixed, through brown, bright eyes.

Harry silently agrees, reaching out and stroking the smooth, soft flesh himself. Tentatively, Luna’s small hand joins his, and Ginny trembles and falls forward, opening herself to their explorations.

Suddenly without hesitancy, Luna runs thin straight fingers down the crack of Ginny’s arse and along the labia, apparently finding the well-hidden clit immediately; “Fuck, Loony!” Ginny cries.

“I’m not sure that we should start with that,” Luna says, focused on her activity. Grinning, Harry kisses her—she blinks in surprise—and then moves his hands up the white body, reaching under to play with the soft, surprisingly substantial breasts. “This body still has its maidenhead, after all.” Luna leans down and runs her tongue experimentally up the curve of one cheek.

“Huh!” Ginny grunts. “Hadn’t… thought of that… But… you found my clit so fast!”

“Well, I do know where it is,” Luna said, reasonably. With two fingers she continued to stroke the equipment with which she was so familiar. “I must say, it’s rather interesting to play with this side, since I never get to see it.”

Continuing to squeeze and massage one breast, Harry runs his other hand down the white, downy back, and lets his fingers join Luna’s dancing to Ginny’s tune. His thumb, which rests in the cleft of her bum, finds the puckered hole there and begins to circle it.

Luna leans forward, replacing her fingers with a Ginny-sharp tongue that continues to move around and between Harry’s fingers against Ginny’s slit.

“Fuck!” Ginny cries, arching. She reaches up, twisting, her cheek on the bright, floral quilt, and starts to stroke Harry’s cock, which begins to gain heft and length almost immediately.

Without considering—his focus still on Ginny’s hand, on Luna’s tongue between his fingers—his thumb presses into Ginny’s bum; Ginny’s hand tightens around his half-hard cock, and they both groan.

“Look how beautiful you are, Luna,” Harry murmurs. “Look how pink your bottom is getting as Ginny gets turned on.”

Luna sits back, transfixed for a moment, and peers down. Her hand is working furiously in the mop of red curls between her legs. “Yes,” she sighs. “Quite lovely.”

“I want to make love to this body, Luna. Can you blame me?” He gently pinches Ginny’s clit and thick nipple, and grins as lets out a long, airy and Luna-like “ _Ah!_ ”

“Well,” the girl with the freckles says, pensive, “no. However, I don’t wish you to hurt Ginny.” Having spoken her mind, Luna leans back forward and finds Ginny’s cunt with her Ginny-tongue.

“Oh,” Harry says. Will it hurt as much if you already know that it’s going to feel good eventually? He doesn’t want Ginny to suffer.

“H-harry,” hisses Ginny, her look of passion oddly out of place on Luna’s usually placid face—out of place, but incredibly sexy—“since… since I’ve already lost my virginity the normal way once, and that’s enough, thanks”—Luna sucks Ginny’s clit through Harry’s still-moving fingers and she gasps—“d-do you want to d-do my arse?”

Without removing her mouth from Ginny’s cunt—her own cunt, really—Luna murmurs, “The books say to use lots and lots of lubrication spells.”

Harry finds himself suddenly fully hard, and that is apparently all of the answer that any of them need.

***

Eri sits at the Lovegoods’ table reading a potions text and listening to the increasing sounds of passion from above.

She is glad that Mr. Lovegood was called away before the sounds were noticeable. She does not think that he would find them as pleasant as she does.

Eri Nott is not ready for sex herself. She knows this. When all of the fuss happened last year about Draco Malfoy doing things to awful Vince Crabbe while he was Polyjuiced as her—Teddy never would tell her exactly what things they were, but she is not stupid or uninformed, and so she tried to imagine whether she would have enjoyed those things herself.

She decided in fact that she would not. Not yet.

Luna however is clearly ready, and it gives Eri pleasure to think that two people to whom Luna is most strongly attracted would be doing things to her that would make her use such uncharacteristic language at what is obviously the height of pleasure.

Smiling, she returns to the instructions for Felix Felicis.

***

Numbly, shyly, Harry pulls up his trousers and looks back at the two figures tangled on the bed. Both are now blonde, and stare at him with silvery, huge eyes; one’s gaze is open and content, the other blazing and triumphant. “T-take care,” he says.

“We will,” says Luna—it is amazing how easy it is to tell the difference.

Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he pulls out a bundle. “Look,” he says, looking at them. “I know… Look, there’s something else I wanted to give you. To help keep you both… safe.” The silvery material of his Invisibility Cloak unfolds, and both girls sit up. “Don’t…” He sighs. He knows as Dumbledore must have known that a tool like this, given to someone as adventurous as Harry—or Ginny—or as curious as Harry—or Luna—would be _used_ , would not sit in a trunk, waiting for necessity. And yet he knows too that he must give them every means that he can to protect themselves.

He won’t tell them about the terms of his will, though that was the driving reason behind today’s visit—confirming what he hoped would happen to these two in the event of his death. That doesn’t matter anymore—the answer, that is. But this does. “Be safe,” he says finally.

“Are you sure, Harry?” asks Ginny, concern furrowing the wide, unlined flesh of Luna’s forehead.

“Yeah,” he answers with what he hopes is a smile, and drapes the cloak over Luna’s desk causing the cluttered top to disappear.

“You take care too,” says Ginny, Luna adding a contented “Hmmmm.”

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

Before things can get any more complicated—if that were possible—he mutters, “See you soon,” and sprints out the door.

At the bottom of the stairs he sees Eri Nott—in her own form again—happily studying. “Hello, Harry,” she says, that level, disconcerting stare of his stabbing at what little is left of his conscience.

“Oh,” he gasps, “Eri… We… You…”

“Yes,” Eri says, nodding. “It was very nice. After so much death and loss recently, it is nice to remember love and pleasure, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” he mumbles. “Yeah. I guess.” Another memory twists the knot of panic in his stomach. “Mr. Lovegood—!”

“—left just after you arrived.” Eri goes back to taking notes in the margins of her book. “He got an owl from one of his sources telling him that something big was brewing in Wiltshire, and so he headed there. I imagine that’s where you are headed next too,” she adds.

“Uh, yeah,” answers Harry.

“How nice that he will be there before the story begins,” Eri says with a smile that would look more in place on the face of a centenarian. “Oh, and Harry?” she says as he is about to go through the door.

“Yes?”

“Kick Voldemort’s arse, will you?”

Smiling grimly, Harry nods and waves. “Will do.”

***

As the boy strolls down the lane to clear the Apparition wards, Firesong considers him. In over two thousand burnings, the phoenix has not seen such a one—quite so loved and so loving. At least, quite so loved in quite this way.

Once the boy has left, the phoenix gives a soft, all-but-subliminal trill, blessing this place and its inhabitants, and departs.

***

“ _NOT THERE?_ ” roars Voldemort, Dark Lord and Eternal. Blythins quivers at his master’s feet, awaiting just punishment, no doubt. “FOOL!”

“M-my l-lord, I waited and watched,” Blythins splutters. “The Umbridge woman did not bring the gold. And she was not at her office or her flat. Sh-she’s s-scarpered.”

Voldemort considers this disaster on many levels. The gold is needed urgently—the ingredients to brew the potions that maintain this body’s integrity and health are rare and expensive, and the upkeep of his small army a constant drain on his treasury. His resources have been stretched thin in any case, and the weekly influx of gold from the Malfoys’ vaults has been the fuel for his plans.

Umbridge. It would not be like the weak, conniving woman to take the risk of running away with a large sum of others’ gold, especially when a steady flow of petty graft presented itself so effortlessly. The only reason…

“SERVANT!” screams Voldemort, calling for one of the nasty elves that keeps the Malfoy keys.

None appears.

“ _HOUSE ELVES! APPEAR OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES_!” Voldemort howls, and Blythins twitches on the floor, as Goyle the Elder, Lestrange and Grint do from their stations by the doorways.

“Th-they’ve been awfully scarce, today,” offers Grint, and the others agree. “No tea today or nothing.”

Voldemort, Dark Lord and Eternal, blinks lidless eyes, and his servants cringe in anticipation, but he does not lash out. He considers the possibilities, and he grins.

“Potter,” he says. “Potter. At last.”

***

Now that Ginny has transformed back to herself, Luna feels comfortable kissing her fully. “Harry never really got to see this,” she says, as she decides that exploring Ginny’s body from the outside is every bit as pleasant as exploring it from the inside was. The twilight is leaching the color of everything in the room but Ginny’s hair.

“Well,” Ginny says, “if _this_ didn’t give him an incentive to survive, I don’t know what will.”

“You are incentive enough, you know,” Luna says. It is joy to be able to say such things without worrying that such a statement would be unwelcome. Joy to be able to taste the lingering flavor of Harry’s passion in Ginny’s mouth, and feel her friend’s fingers explore Luna’s own body with such confidence.

“As are you,” Ginny says. Then, after giving Luna’s pudenda a quick and very pleasant caress, Ginny leaps up from the bed and starts to dress.

Old fear grips Luna—fear that she has said something wrong, or that this has all been some elaborate game that did not have the same meaning for Ginny and for Harry that it did for her. As she pulls her knees into her breasts, Ginny turns back to her. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Coming?” Luna considers briefly the possibility that Ginny is speaking in the vernacular sense.

Ginny shakes her head and grins. Lifting up the Invisibility Cloak, she says, “Harry wouldn’t have given us this if he didn’t expect us to _use_ it.”

“Oh.” **Observations:** A) Harry Potter spoke at several points during his visit about _tonight_ as if it meant something other than…

“It’s Halloween,” Luna gasps, sitting up.

“Yup,” Ginny says.

  1. B) Lord Voldemort attempted to kill Harry Potter and his family on Halloween. C) In the year before Luna started at Hogwarts, a teacher possessed by Voldemort loosed a troll in the school dungeons on Halloween. D) During Luna and Ginny’s first year, the spirit of Voldemort possessed Ginny and loosed the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets for the first time on Halloween. E) The following year, Sirius Black attempted to enter Gryffindor Tower to kill the Potters’ betrayer, Voldemort’s servant Peter Pettigrew, on Halloween. E) The following year, Voldemort’s disguised servant, Barty Crouch, Jr., entered Harry Potter in the Tri-Wizard Tournament on Halloween. F) Nothing much of import has happened on Halloween during the past few years; however today, Harry Potter was very _emotional_ , as he rarely is. G) Today, Harry Potter said very clearly that _something is happening tonight._ Something F) Today, Harry Potter gave Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood one of his most prized possessions, and asked them to “take care.” H) Harry Potter is widely assumed to be the only person who can destroy Voldemort. **Inferences** : Harry Potter has planned some sort of attack on Voldemort tonight. Harry Potter would like Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood to _stay safe_ , and yet has given Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley a means for approaching a battle site safely. **Deductions** : Harry Potter is engaging Voldemort tonight, and either wants Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley to come or does not want them to come but is afraid that they will come anyway and therefore wishes them to remain safe. **Possible Responses** : A) Stay safe at home. B) Find out where the battle is and go.



Luna stands and reaches for her own clothes.

“So?” Ginny asks. “You coming with?”

“I am,” Luna answers. As she pulls on her rainbow-colored knickers—the ones with the Snorkacks gamboling across what she now knows to be her very lovely bum—she feels the moist reminder of Harry’s presence within. _How funny to have been able to feel that and yet still have my…_ She blinks. _Oh, my._ Looking over at Ginny she says, “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No.” Ginny’s expression is suddenly small as it has not been all day. “I… didn’t want to distract him.”

“Yes. That makes sense.” Luna pulls on the lucky skirt that she wears Snorkack hunting and the blouse that was once her mother’s. “Do we know where we’re going?”

Now the confidence comes back into Ginny’s eyes. “The Malfoys’ place. That’s where Snakeface has been holed up—Charlie let it drop, and Gred and Forge confirmed it.”

“Good,” Luna says, considering. “That’s close by. You take the cloak. I’ll go and get some meat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this is the largest single chunk of narrative I've ever written [to be surpassed by the following chapter] —longer than any one-shot, longer than any chapter. It is... episodic, I'll grant.
> 
> But I hope you didn't find it boring. ;-)
> 
> For those of you who have been dubious about the Luna/Ginny/Harry trio but have still continued to read, thank you. I hope that this worked for you, though I am certain that for many there are still questions. Which you are welcome to ask, by the way—or simply to file away as you pass on through to less peculiar destinations.
> 
> And to my fellow Narglies, I say... :-D
> 
> Yes, I left some things hanging... But there are only two chapters left (plus an epilogue). So all will hopefully be revealed soon...
> 
> Chapter art is adapted from TBranch, “Tired of Fighting” — used with permission.


	36. Into the Darkness, into the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next great adventure...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What you've been waiting for! (Or, in some cases, dreading...)
> 
> This is another big chapter in all senses.
> 
> Warnings: Character death. Action, mild violence, some implied het and femmeslash, some sniffly stuff. Metaphysics made concrete. Character death. Some sexual references and language. Oh, and character death.
> 
> Thanks to my beta aberforths_rug for staying with me!

The Thestral turns its head to the left as they climb into the vivid, moonlit Halloween night. Ginny is clutching her mount’s mane, face grim and bright. Luna calls across the open space to her, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I thought it would be better now that I can see them,” Ginny answers through gritted teeth. As they level off, she grimaces. “Wish we’d come by broom.”

“Oh, but this is much faster,” says Luna.

Ginny nods, but it does not look as if she is paying attention.

“Look at the jack o’ lanterns down in Honiton,” Luna says, pointing to the small, warm flecks of light in the village far below—gold against the silver-blue landscape, bright under the huge pumpkin of a moon. Tiny clumps of shadow mill about—children with their parents?

Ginny does not look down. “I’m worried.”

“That we’re going to die?” asks Luna. It seems a reasonable fear.

Between the beats of her Thestral’s wings, Luna can see Ginny shrug, and wishes that she could embrace her friend. Her lover. Lover. Fingers and tongues… “I’m worried for Harry,” she says. “And my family. And you. And me. I’m worried.”

Luna nods and feels the cold night air whip through her hair. “I love you,” she calls.

Ginny nods again and smiles. This time she looks as if she means it. “Love you too, Loony.” The Thestrals swoop below a cloud and Ginny grimaces again. “Wish I wasn’t so sore, though!”

“Oh,” Luna says, reveling in the sensation of the muscled back moving between her legs, “I think it feels rather nice.”

***

Sybill stumbles in to Dobbins’s stable—his _room_ , one is supposed to say. He hardly seems surprised to see her.

She points up at the enchanted ceiling. “Mars is… _bright_ tonight, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” responds the centaur with a gruff nod. And then he points to the cunningly carved desk that seems to have grown out of one of the trees. A set of cards has been dealt: Death, then the King of Swords, flanked by the Empress and the High Priestess, and then the Queen and Knight of Cups, followed by the Hanged Man.

Sybill gasps, and Firenze raises an eyebrow. “We are agreed, then?” he asks.

Mutely, she nods.

***

As they gather in the woods, Ron chews on a nail and looks around at the veritable army that is gathering there: well over a hundred wizards and witches from the DA, the Order and the Auror Corps (Kingsley laughed when he showed up with fifteen Aurors in full battle gear, saying, “What, you thought this lot would miss out on a lovely brawl like this?”), two half-giants looming at the edge of the throng, three full giants playfully batting at each other with ancient oaks that they’d pulled out of the ground, and—in his own clearing deep in the shadows—Norbert, his nostrils glowing malignantly. Nearly his whole family is here—even Mum. Just Ginny stayed home. And Percy, of course, the prat, is out there somewhere.

What Ron is worried about is obvious enough: some of these people will die tonight. There’s no way of knowing who or how many. And it will be his fault when they do. When Ron plays wizard chess, he always tries to imagine that his pieces—the grumbling, battered pawns, rooks and knights, the stately, sneering bishops, the icy royalty—are real soldiers, that he is a real general. That sacrificing them is a tragedy—necessary but sad.

He is discovering that pretending that troops are real and standing next to them before a battle are very different things.

And, in all honesty, it doesn’t help that one of those is Hermione.

Or, even, that another of them is Pansy, who Ron can’t help but feel… Well, _sorry_ for, as much of a mess as her life has become. Ron knows that there are boys—men—who can fuck a girl without giving a shit about who she is, but he has discovered that he isn’t one. Pansy deserves better than she’s gotten, that’s for sure. And yet here she is, standing alone in the middle of the crowd, sunken eyes glittering, all of her smooth roundness melted away leaving something hard and just a bit scary behind. Ron can’t help remembering that smooth roundness moving against him. Around him. Can’t help…

Hermione, this afternoon, her tits heavy, bouncing and flushed, her thighs sweaty and straining, her face…

Transcendent. Hard to believe that that face belongs to the same swotty, goody-goody girl he’s known for all of these years. Has known and loved for all of these years…

Her skin…

Ron shivers.

“Everyone please gather here!” calls Professor McGonagall, and every voice in the clearing stills. Just about all of them had been her students at one point or another, after all. Hermione snaps to attention, takes Ron’s hand and begins to pull him forward.

“Hermione,” he says, though his voice barely carries across the short space between them.

She stops and looks at him, and bugger if those eyes—sharp as a Stunner, brilliant, a bit haughty—aren’t the same ones that he was gazing up into—half-lidded, sex-softened—this afternoon. “It’s all right, Ron. It’ll be all right.”

He squeezes her hand, nods and follows her towards where Dedalus Diggle is standing, grinning goofily beside the enlarged battle plans. The battle plans that he himself helped develop.

Bugger.

***

As they cross into Wiltshire, leaving yet another tiny, Halloween-sparked village in their wake, Luna leans back up from neck of her mount—she’s decided his name is Silver—and notices that Ginny has been calling to her. “Oh,” she calls back. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah,” says Ginny, her Ginny smirk firmly in place. “I sort of figured that out.”

“How insightful of you,” Luna says as an inexplicable warmth fights with the autumn chill.

“Yeah,” Ginny snorts, before her face takes on a rather less typical seriousness. “Loony… Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Luna answers, always pleased to be able to help. “Is it about Thestrals? Or Halloween?”

“No,” Ginny says, shaking her head with the tiniest of smiles. “No. I… I wanted to ask you, basically, the same thing that Harry did.”

“When?” Luna asks, pondering. “When he asked if he could nibble on my—?”

“No.” The smile gets less tiny, as do the eyes. “No. About… If something happens to me tonight. If something does, please, please, will you… take care of Harry?”

“Of course I will,” Luna answers without even having to consider. “And I don’t have to bother asking if you will do the same for me, as you and Harry would manage that quite well without my asking.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Ginny says, her voice very faint in the rushing almost-November wind. “Or him.”

“No, nor I you,” Luna answers, stretching forward on Silver once again, feeling the lift and fall of the Thestrals neck against her body, though this time, she turns her head towards the lovely girl to her side. “But you know of course that any separation would only be temporary. Those we love never leave us.”

“Dumbledore said that.”

“Yes.”

Ginny’s eyes somehow manage to look blacker than the night sky against which she is framed. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t hate it if either of you were to die.”

“No,” Luna agrees. “Ginny?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you want Harry to have vaginal intercourse with you?”

Black eyes blink.

“I mean, the anal intercourse looked rather interesting—” It was odd for Luna to watch the face familiar from the mirror turn red, to listen both of them grunt like mating Throons as she stroked their genitals and watched the transported expressions on their faces.

“It was,” Ginny answers. “But it doesn’t seem fair that I’m still sore after I’ve changed back.”

“Oh.” Luna considers this. “Well, would you want your body to forget? I wouldn’t want not to feel what we did this evening. Though I must say that it is odd to remember the sensations of sex so viscerally but to have my maidenhead intact.”

“That’s why,” Ginny says, eyes still burning darkly. “When he fucks that beautiful body, I want it to be _you_.”

“Oh.” Luna isn’t quite sure that she understands the logic of this, but she does recognize that it is one of those Gryffindor ethical things that Ginny and Harry—and Ron and Hermione and the rest—seem to hedge themselves in with. And so she appreciates the gesture. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ginny says. They fly on for another five minutes in silence. “Oh, hey. One other thing.”

“What?” asks Luna.

“If I… If something does happen to me,” Ginny says, facing directly forward, “don’t tell Harry, okay?”

“Don’t tell him that something happened?” This strikes Luna as a very odd request.

“No, no!” Ginny actually laughs, and Luna’s esophagus flutters in sympathy. “I mean, don’t tell him about… You know.”

“Oh!” Remarkably, Luna does know. This is rare for her—people say things like _you-know-what_ and _You-Know-Who_ and the like all of the time, and usually Luna has no idea what they’re talking about, which seems to contradict the whole point of the euphemisms rather. This time, however, she does know. “Yes, of course. If you’re certain.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, turning her head back towards Luna. “Yeah, I am.”

“All right,” says Luna, and begins to sing a lullaby to Mars, which is rising slowly in the east.

***

Eri walks into Luna’s Garden. It smells of sex. It is a very interesting smell. Not at all nice, certainly, but _interesting_. It smells like Nifflers and earth and something else, like the memory of a scent that tickles at the edge of her nostrils but refuses to stay still long enough to be sniffed and identified. The scent does odd things to her tummy.

Eri thinks about Harry and Ginny, and about Luna. She will be sad if they die.

But she really does hope that Harry kills Voldemort. The world does need to be rid of the Dark Lord. Soon.

Sitting on the bed, Eri lets the animal odor of _fucking_ float over her senses.

Yes. It is time the war to end.

***

“And so those will be the groupings,” giggles Dedalus Diggle.

Hard to believe that this man was the architect of the strategy that put Dumbledore in a position to kill Grindelwald. And yet…

“The team leader for the Alphas will be Auror Tonks. For the Betas, my good friend Filius. For the Gammas, Auror Shaklebolt, since these wonderful ladies and gentlemen are already used to your no-doubt excellent command. The Deltas in all their enormous glory will be under your leadership _tout-à-fait merveilleux_ , _chère Madame Maxime_.” Another giggle. “Our two free agents, Mr. Potter and Mr. Charles Weasley and friend, will if need be report directly to Professor McGonagall and myself.” The bloody lunatic is bouncing on his toes, as if this were a bloody Quidditch match that he’s getting excited about. “Oh, and of course our young friends in Team Epsilon will be under the quite extraordinary leadership of Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

Ron feels his gorge rise—a team _leader_? Who the hell decided that? When—?

“Speaking of the youngest Mr. Weasley,” Diggle continues, “I would dearly love to have him come up here and explain to each team its orders for this evening’s activities!”

 _Activities_. Like it’s a game of Gobstones or a bloody birthday party.

Harry starts clapping, and the whole troop break out into a round of gruff applause.

“Come on, Ron,” Hermione urges, pushing him up to where the map of the Malfoy house has been expanded and shown in three dimensions in the middle of the clearing.

He stumbles forward, and suddenly becomes even more aware of the eyes, all of the eyes—if Kingsley brought fifteen Aurors that’ll make one hundred and twenty-seven pairs of human eyes, and a number of others that are distinctly inhuman.

All of them staring at Ron. Expecting.

Diggle grins as Ron meanders into the center of the group. The silly old wizard hands Ron a long pointing stick and motions for him to proceed.

“Are you—?” Ron asks, or tries to, but Dedalus Diggle just laughs and motions with his hand again.

Ron gulps and looks around. His parents are there, looking at him proudly. The Aurors listening respectfully. To _him_. Professor McGonagall, beaming. Charlie, Bill, Tonks. Madame Maxime, gripping one of Hagrid’s enormous hands in her own.

Harry.

Hermione.

Pansy is looking down. But she is listening.

“So,” Ron starts, his voice pinched and his head light, “Me, um, Mr. Diggle and I—”

“Oh, no!” cackled Dedalus Diggle, “I won’t take any of the credit here! Beautiful bones, this strategy, boy, and it’s all yours!”

Ron tries to say thank you, but finds his lips moving soundlessly and dry. He looks down at the model.

Right.

“So. Um. Alpha Team, that’s, um, Tonks’s crew,” he starts.

“Speak up!” a voice calls. One of the Aurors.

Professor McGonagall walks up beside Ron, touches his throat with her wand and murmurs _Sonorus_.

A heat floods through his throat. He nods his thanks to the headmistress, takes a breath and starts again. “So, can everyone hear me? Can everyone see the map?”

There’s a general murmur of assent, and some shuffling so that people can see.

“Right,” says Ron, suddenly seeing the whole operation in his head, just as he did when he was mapping the plan out for Diggle and McGonagall. “Coming in from the northern side of the map, you can see a tunnel. It ends in a cave just on the other side of this line of trees. Tonks, you’ll take Alpha Team…”

***

Percy Weasley walks stiffly up to the door of his family home. The shades are drawn, and lights on; there is murmuring inside.

Uncomfortably, he raises his hand and knocks.

Really, this is very awkward.

***

Several of the younger pups get playful, nipping at each other’s flanks, barking like _pets_.

Fenrir Greyback lowers his muzzle to the ground and then turns back to the pack with a growl.

Thirty-one werewolves fall still and silent, and when Fenrir continues along their path, the pack pads along behind him, deadly, determined.

They will taste blood tonight.

***

They have been sitting at the dinner table for hours, but Zacharias does not feel as if he can excuse himself—not when the Minister himself is still nibbling at bonbons and holding forth, with Ebenezer Smith plying him with mead and questions. “So,” Zach’s father asks, the question that he has been leading up to for hours, “how is the war going?”

“War?” growls Rufus Scrimgeour, his face red as his name implies. “There’s no _war_. Just a group of lunatics on the one side seeding terror through the wizarding population, and group of equally mad idiots on the other, playing Aurors and Necromancers, screaming about giants and dragons and dementors and curses, and making what is already a delicate situation infinitely _worse_!” The minister slams a crystal goblet down for emphasis, shattering the delicate stem.

The elder Smith laughs and repairs the goblet with a swish of his wand, but the younger merely smiles politely. The Galleon cooled down some hours ago, but it has been burning a hole in Zacharias’s pocket ever since.

“I’m,” he says, and then stops, unaccustomed to having to stoop to subterfuge. “I’m tired. Minister, father, may I be excused?”

“Too right!” says Scrimgeour with a bark of a laugh. “To hell with old men talking politics! Run along and think about girls and Quidditch, as you should be doing at your age!”

As he shuffles out of the room, Zacharias is struck that, for the first time since he turned thirteen, he has in fact managed to go at least three hours without thinking about either Quidditch or girls.

Much.

***

“Miss Quirke, Robbins, you Creeveys there—just where do you think you’re going?” Minerva snaps at the students who are trying to insinuate themselves among their older comrades—the non-Apparators who are joining Miss Tonks’s team down in the tunnel.

“But… But Professor—” Orla Quirke whinges in her unfortunate Glaswegian drawl.

Minerva is having none of that. “You’ve been given your orders,” she says in a manner calculated to freeze their blood, “and if you cannot follow them, then you had best go home.”

The young students stand shame-faced as their elders follow Bill Weasley, Tonks and the transformed Remus and Hestia towards the opening of the tunnel. “Don’t worry!” calls one—Ernie Macmillan, perhaps. “We’ll save some for you!”

And with that, Alpha Team disappears into the trees.

“Now,” Minerva says, softening at the sad faces before her, “what would Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey do without you here to defend them, I ask you? Run along.”

Run they do, children playing at war.

Minerva takes a deep breath, trying not to think of too many young faces that she will never see smile again.

***

“You excited to be headed back to the manor?” snorts Tracey.

It’s the closest thing to a conversational gambit that she’s offered you in weeks. “Better than headquarters,” you mutter, and Greg and Millie actually laugh.

“Can’t believe we’re following _Weasley_ ,” Millie says. “Dressed up with a blood poncy sword and all.”

“Chess-master, isn’t he,” says Tracey, smiling grimly.

The words burst from your lips to your astonishment and your companions’: “Oh, he’s a master all right. And he’s hung like a fucking horse, sword or no.”

Millie and Greg’s hyperpituitary jaws drop; Tracey laughs and pounds your shoulder.

From the other side of the clearing where Epsilon Team is gathering, dark blue eyes flick to yours. They are puzzled. Open and unavailable. ( _Sweaty back and bouncing bum astride…_ )

It would be easier if he would just shut you off, you think. It would be easier if you were to die tonight.

***

Percy enters the house with enormous trepidation, calling out, “Mother? Father?”

There is no one.

The lights and sounds of the family milling about are nothing but charms and glamours.

A piece of parchment materializes on the kitchen table; the handwriting on it is the familiar script of his mother, the script that he has avoided for these past two years, not wishing to make himself vulnerable to her attacks or to those of his own scruples.

Against his instinct and his better conscience, he picks up the letter and opens it.

***

“Where’s your lovely bride tonight?” Tonks asks Bill, who’s looking drawn— _Full moon_ , she figures.

“St. Mungo’s,” he grunts as they follow Moony and Hestia down along the dark, dank tunnel.

“St…?”

“She’s… bleeding.” In the wandlight, the scars that Greyback left on his face stand out in sharp relief.

“Bill!” Tonks says, loudly enough that it echoes. Moony and Hestia turn and growl, and a couple of the DA troops hiss, “ _Shhhhh!_ ”

Bill just looks straight forward, not stopping.

“Shouldn’t you be there?” she whispers.

“Tossed a fireball at me. Screamed at me to leave,” he mutters, and clamps his mouth shut.

Tonks tries to imagine leaving a pregnant wife in hospital to go to a battle. Tries to imagine being pregnant and bleeding and sending her husband away. Can’t imagine either. _Suppose that’s why I was sorted into Hufflepuff_ , she thinks as she stomps along into the tunnel.

***

Godfrey Goyle adjusts his Death Eater mask and looks about, trying not to appear too lost in front of Thompson and Faversham, both of whom are relatively new and still treat him with at least a bit of respect.

Ottery St. Catchpole isn’t such a large village that he should be able to get lost, but there you are.

To be honest, since Cyril’s capture at the Ministry last year—Godfrey had an awful attack of gastritis that kept him home—and since his son’s defection last month, Godfrey Goyle’s heart just isn’t in the Death Eater business. But everyone knows what happened to old Regulus. And when the Dark Lord issues a command…

“Bit old for Trick or Treating, aren’t you?” pipes a voice from Godfrey’s elbow. Spinning quickly, wand at the ready, he finds a couple of girls got up as hags and a boy in a red suit with horns. He blinks.

“No, no,” says Faversham. “Going to a party, aren’t we?”

“Er,” says Godfrey, lowering his wand, but keeping it at the ready. “Right. Party. At the Lovegoods’.”

“ _Those_ weirdos?” the boy sneers. “Your on the wrong side of the village, then! Their place is just off the Plymouth road, a mile down towards Stoatshead Hill.”

“Right,” says Godfrey. When the trio wander off—they must be Muggles, Godfrey assumes—he mutters, “Come on. Let’s Apparate a mile south.”

It’s hard to tell through the masks, but Faversham and Thompson look dubious.

At least they follow.

***

“ _Advance!_ ” calls Olympe in Giantish, and she manages to make even that language sound ruddy elegant, Hagrid decides, as he sprints along next to her, trying to keep pace with the loping strides of Bludfen, Grawp and Knerklack. The field is trembling at their passing.

It’s ruddy beautiful.

“Olympe,” Hagrid grunts in English. “Olympe, I gotter tell ya…”

“ _Oui, Little ‘Agger_?” the half-giantess answers without turning her head.

“It wasn’t…” He’s meant to say this for weeks. Months. “It weren’t… It didn’t mean nothing with her. Not like you.”

Ahead of them by some fifty or seventy yards Bludfen leans forward and looses a bellow that strips the leaves from the hedgerow that marks the edge of the Malfoy lands.

“ _Je comprends_ ,” Olympe answers, face still unreadable. “I understand. It was necessary.”

“Right. For the war, and all.” Somehow it doesn’t sound terribly impressive stated like that.

“I understand, ‘Agrid.” There is an answering bellow from within the Malfoy compound, and the three full giants raise their tree trunks and howl. Olympe raises her wand. “It does not mean zat I like it.”

“No,” Hagrid says, and brings his battered pink umbrella to bear.

***

As they walk along through the tunnel, Tonks tries to stop herself from thinking that Bill should be at St. Mungo’s and that running down a tunnel behind a pair of werewolves—even werewolves who’ve been taking Wolfsbane—is a dangerous bloody proposition.

Clueless, Katie Bell burbles to Bill, “So what’s it like, being married to a…” Suddenly she stops.

Remus and Hestia are both growling, their hackles rising, and even Katie gets the idea.

“Bill?” Tonks whispers, “we’re still outside the part of the tunnel shown on the map, aren’t we.”

He nods tersely.

“Bugger.”

In the dark around them, in small niches and branches off of the main tunnel, there are eyes glowing, reflecting their wandlight. Canine eyes. Lots of them. “Circle up,” Tonks orders quietly. As calmly as she can. “Back to back. Shoulder to shoulder.”

They’re outnumbered by better than two to one. Her command. Her last command, most like. They shuffle into a defensive ring. Ten kids. Two fully qualified wizards. Two werewolves. Against…

“Bill,” Tonks hisses, “you can Apparate—”

“No.” His face is grim. His wand is pointed directly at a silver-muzzled, scarred werewolf who is testing the edges of their light.

***

“I want you all to stay here,” Harry says to Fetchins and Gobby and the rest.

They shake their heads. “Master’s elveses’ place is with the Master’s house,” the youngest one, Plopsy, chirps.

Shaking his head in frustration, Harry pleads, “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“We will not,” Dobby promises, “but Mr. Harry Potter, sir, must allow us elveses to be what we is being.”

Running a hand through his hair, Harry concedes. “Fine. Okay. But will you promise to keep to the lower part of the house? To the cellars?”

“Yes, Master Harry Potter,” the five elves say, Dobby bobbing madly as they do.

“Great. So…” He looks over at Ron, at Kingsley Shacklebolt and at Flitwick, who all nod at him. “It’s time, then. Lower the wards, please.”

The six elves raise their spindly arms, and with an electric _snap_ , they disappear; the stars seem to shimmer for a moment.

“Okay,” Harry calls to the team leaders. “It’s time to go.”

***

Charlie is already in flight when the wards come down—from up here, it seems as if an invisibility cloak has been pulled off of a twenty-acre swath of parkland.

A cold knot of mist is gathered by the front gate—the last of Moldybreath’s Dementors.

“Come on, Norbert,” Charlie shouts, pulling on the reins, “let’s go redecorate a bit, shall we?”

Norbert swoops down and answers with a gout of white-hot flame that vaporizes two of the Dementors and sets a stand of two-hundred-year-old yew trees ablaze.

***

“Guess they know we’re here now,” Ron jokes at the battle cries of the dragon and of the giants.

The whole team titters nervously.

Harry gives him a pat on the shoulder. Hermione gives his hand a quick squeeze.

He’s really going to do this. His fingers grip at the heavy, jeweled pommel of the broadsword that hangs awkwardly at his side, ridiculous piece of costume flummery, definitely, but Harry and Hermione convinced him it was needed. That he’s the one to use it even though it was _Harry_ …. Silly. But it is warm and solid in his hand and it lets him feel at least a little like he’s supposed to do this.

“Okay, you lot,” Ron calls to his assembled troops. “You know your orders: we’re to keep Harry here free to do his job. Nothing gets in those doors. Nothing.”

Even Justin Finch-Fletchley manages to look anxious. Even the Patils manage to look pale. The Slytherins are looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Another deep breath. “We’ve all trained for this. We’ve all fought—most of us together, some on opposite sides.” Davis gives him a snaggle-toothed grimace of a grin. “But I know every one of you is up to this. I know you have the skills and I know you have the bloody bollocks—even you, Susan.” This generates a laugh from the whole company, not least from Neville and Susan Bones. “This is the most important job any of us are ever going to do, and we’re going to do it right. Right?”

“ _RIGHT!_ ” the team calls back—thirty-five warriors now, veterans of battles small and large.

A tremor passes through Ron—not fear, precisely, though there’s plenty of that. “Right,” he answers, quietly this time. “So. We know where the enemy are—most of them out of our way. But the map won’t show everything. There’re bound to be surprises; don’t let them throw you. Cover each other’s backs. Let’s go.”

***

> _Hallowe’en, 1997._
> 
> _Dear Percy,_
> 
> _As I write this, your father, your brothers and I are all about to go and join the Order. We are attacking You Know Who, Merlin help us, and we hope to defeat him once and for all._
> 
> _This letter will only materialize if you are the only person in this house. If you are reading it, one of two things has happened. Either the Order has failed, and you have come after our deaths to see to the house, in which case, I would ask you to water the roses, as the autumn has been a dry one._
> 
> _The other reason that this letter might have appeared is that you chose this very night to come back to us. Please believe that no matter how angry your brothers and sister may have seemed, no matter how hurt they may have acted on my behalf, we all love you and we will always welcome you back._
> 
> _In either case, I have sent Ginny to stay with that odd Lovegood girl. Please go and make sure that she is safe._
> 
> _Happy Hallowe’en!_
> 
> _Your loving Mother_
> 
> _PS There is a serving of your favorite trifle in the icebox._

Percy puts down the letter, removes his glasses and blinks. Fighting You-Know-Who? Madness!

And of course he didn’t come back here because he had changed his _mind_ precisely, he simply wanted to check some facts independently—Minister Scrimgeour’s reliance on Felix Felicis and on some of the more politicized branches of the Ministry rather than on more unbiased, professional departments for information has lead him to take some actions of late that remind Percy all too much of his predecessor.

And Percy has no intention of being pulled down by yet another failed administration.

He cannot deny, of course, that the idea of his entire family—other than the baby—taking up wands against the Death Eaters…

Well, Percy is not entirely without family feeling, no matter what _some_ may say.

The baby. Yes, Ginny is sleeping over with her peculiar little friend Luna. Perhaps they will know where Mother and Father and the rest have gone.

Percy stands, ready to Apparate.

Not before a bite of trifle, though. No, not before that.

***

The hardest thing that Harry has ever done—harder, even, than flying to London, not knowing if Sirius was alive or dead or than saying goodbye to Ginny and to Luna—is standing here, watching as each of the other teams launches in to the attack. Listening to the giants’ blows thudding like thunder, concussing the air from two miles away, and seeing Norbert’s flame light up the sky.

Watching as three teams appear in the midst of the Death Eaters and push them, just as Ron had anticipated, away from the huge sitting room on the second floor. Away from Voldemort.

“Ready, Mr. Potter?” Professor McGonagall asks.

Harry nods.

“Voldemort is right where you want him,” gushes Dedalus Diggle, the first wizard that Harry ever remembers meeting. “No doubt he shall have some surprises in store for you, but I am certain that you will be more than equal to the task!”

Again Harry nods, though this time it is more hopeful than certain.

“Now remember,” Professor McGonagall says, “blow the doors first.”

Harry nods.

“They’ve got the north wing clear!” calls Colin. That’s what they—what Harry’s been waiting for.

“God speed, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall calls.

Without looking back, Harry turns and feels the familiar squeezing of Apparition.

When he arrives in the Malfoy’s sitting room— _his_ sitting room—he finds the three figures that he expected from the Marauders Map: Voldemort, seated, flanked by Peter Pettigrew and by the snake Nagini.

Around them press dozens upon dozens of Acromantulas, from little ones the size of small dogs to hulking, black monsters the size of small automobiles.

“Good evening, Harry Potter,” hisses Voldemort, his dry voice perfectly in tune with the quiet clicking of scores of spider jaws. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

Spiders. And they didn’t show up on the map. Surprises indeed. _Ron’s going to hate this,_ Harry finds himself thinking as he raises his wand to open the doors and let the DA in.

***

The moment Harry’s first blast doesn’t open the doors from the other side, Ron knows that something is up. “Hermione, Susan, help me get these doors open. Now!” The other members of the team stay at their stations around the room—some defending possible entries, some waiting for the doors to open.

Hermione starts in with the obvious unlocking spells, while Susan tries to cut the hinges off. Green sparks flare from the doors, but they don’t budge.

Ron adds his own efforts. Nothing. All that Ron can think is that Harry is stuck on the other side, alone with Voldemort and Merlin knows what horrors.

George flies in from the corridor. “Stairwell’s clear, Ronnie… _BLOODY HELL, STOP!_ ” He shoves Hermione into Ron, who tumbles into Susan. Spells fly everywhere, ricocheting off of chandeliers.

“What the hell, George? _We’ve got to get in there_!” howls Ron. The sword is out and for a moment he considers clouting his brother with the ruby-encrusted pommel and hacking through the oak paneling; seems an awful thing to do to a thousand-year-old magical sword, but—

“Old Pisser’s learned a thing or two from us,” George mutters, running his wand up and down the center of the doors. ( _Harry. Alone. With Voldemort. Old Pisser…_ ) Ron wonders if George even noticed that he used the Slytherins’ nickname for Voldemort. “He set the same bloody charms here as Fred and me did on the shop.”

“Can you—?” Ron asks, aware that he is hyperventilating, that Hermione is chewing on her lip to the point of drawing blood. The ten DA members assigned to this side of the room are all pressing up behind Ron and he wants to push them back, to push—

“Got it,” George says, and the doors explode open, shards flying over Ron’s head and into the room; there are several screeches behind him.

A scene from Ron’s personal hell reveals itself—Harry madly defending himself, and a sea of black, hairy, awful…

“Spiders,” he hisses as George stumbles behind him. “Why the bloody hell did it have to be spiders?”

***

 _Air superiority_ , Ron called it, and Charlie rather liked the phrase, but at the moment, watching a good-sized topiary cockatrice fly over Norbert’s back—and his head—he isn’t feeling terribly superior. Having to stay low enough to sweep the grounds clear of Dementors leaves Norbert vulnerable to attacks from the ground—a boulder the size of a motorbike nearly clips Norbert’s left wing—and from above. They haven’t yet dared come down at him on brooms, but he’s seen a good Quidditch side or so circling up in the bright moonlit sky, and over there, by the house…

Abraxans?

No.

It’s been forever, but Charlie remembers the first time he saw the Thestrals pulling the carriages down from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade Station: it was after the whole school watched him plow Bobby Gudgeon with an absolutely perfect Wronski Feint. Bobby hit the ground, and Charlie’d felt the exhilaration of having _got_ the other flier. Bobby hit the ground, but he never got up again. That first time he saw the skull-faced horses, Charlie felt as if they were there just to haunt _him_.

Fortunately or unfortunately, everyone else saw them that June too.

Two Thestrals, coming in low from the southwest, moon in their faces and a rider on each back. They swoop in over the manor house and land on the roof.

Dodging another giant-tossed missile—a _crododile_?—Charlie steers Norbert towards the house.

When he lands, the Thestrals scarcely flinch.

The two riders are nowhere to be seen.

Wand out, Charlie slides from Norbert’s back and stalks towards the one door that seems to lead to the attic.

As he approaches, he sees the door knob jiggle, and hears a very, very familiar “Bugger.”

There are two things that Charlie can do right now: he can call Ginny and Luna on it—the other one _has_ to be Luna—and try to send them packing, knowing that they’ll just sneak right back as soon as he’s taken off again; or…

He quickly casts a non-verbal unlocking spell—one that the house elves informed Harry would work on all of the external doors. Loudly he grumbles, “Well, guess there’s nothing here. It’s a good thing we’re over the north wing, because that’s where Harry’s fighting Old Snakeface, in the big room at the south end of the first floor. I’ll just have to take off again.”

As climbs back up on his dragon, hoping desperately that he hasn’t just made an awful mistake, Charlie can swear that he hears a breathy voice whisper, “That’s a very beautiful dragon,” and that other, very familiar voice shushing quietly.

As Norbert soars away from the manor and Charlie begins to search the skies for attacking Death Eaters, he files this away on the Long List of Things Molly Weasley Need Not Ever Hear About.

Not even in the afterlife.

***

At least two of the kids have been bitten, and Tonks is pretty sure that Ernie McMillan is dead, not that she’s had a chance to check, firing curses as she can at any furry target, praying to the gods she was never raised to believe in that she doesn’t hit Remus. Or Hestia.

It’s a doomed exercise, she knows, but you don’t stop, not while you’re still breathing and your wand is still in your hand.

Bill is growling and screaming and cursing beside her, hexes flying thick at the circling pack of werewolves—not as many as there were, but still more than enough to finish Alpha Team.

Remus…

There’s a loud howl to her right, and a fawn brown werewolf sinks razor-sharp teeth into the throat of a larger, silver-muzzled wolf. No game of dominance here: the smaller wolf rips through the larger one’s throat, bones, muscle, cartilage and all, splattering blood against the tunnel walls.

In his death-throes, Greyback’s jagged left hind claw comes up and tears across Remus’s abdomen, slicing him open from ribs to pelvis.

“ _NO_!” screams Tonks, sprinting unthinking forward.

Two things happen simultaneously. A sharp, fiery pain sears through Tonks’s thigh. At the same moment, there are a series of _cracks_ , and the tunnel is flooded with light.

A small voice manages to boom out. “Wolveses must not be hurting Master Harry Potter’s friends!”

There are half a dozen or more loud, crackling noises, and suddenly the tunnel is rank with the scent of burning fur. The wolves still able to run—perhaps a dozen or fifteen—pad off, whinging and whimpering into the darkness.

One of the kids—Katie—thanks the house elves, who demur as house elves always do.

Tonks, however, can only see Remus and Greyback, still locked together on the tunnel floor. Both motionless. Both glassy-eyed. Their blood mingling as it leaches into the rock.

“No,” she moans and tries to move forward, but the fire in her leg is too much and she stumbles and falls.

“Shit, Tonks,” gasps Bill—Bill, who never gasped at anything that Tonks knows of other than a really good blow job or two.

She looks back at him and follows his gaze down to her leg.

There, yellow and ragged against her blood and the smooth scarlet leather of her Auror’s trousers, the stump of a tooth sticks from her upper thigh.

A werewolf fang.

The next thing that Tonks sees is pure black, and it is more than welcome to take her.

***

Hermione has heard Ron and Harry talk about finding themselves in the middle of Aragog’s brood second year, and has always thought that they were exaggerating the terror of the situation a bit—understandable, since the time and place were likely to make the mind quite suggestible.

As she manically throws every cutting hex that she can think of at the horrid creatures’ legs, she finds that she needs to revisit that assumption.

She is standing over Susan, whose arm was badly cut by a piece of flying wood when the door blew open. Easy to heal under normal circumstances, but not under these.

Ron, who has been muttering “Spiders, spiders” under his breath, looks like a berserker, wand flashing in one hand, sword slashing in the other. Even putting his phobia and her own attraction and devotion to him aside, Hermione decides that he is the most sublime thing that she has ever seen.

He shouts, “INFLAMARE!”—the incantation that she showed him, culled from the early pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ —and tongues of red and gold flame burst from the sword as he wields it.

There are flashes of light coming from the other room, and screams. Voldemort and Harry, both.

They need to fight through.

In the moment, however, Hermione is simply grateful to continue to live, to continue to fight, to continue to see Ron standing in the middle of the carnage like a figure out of an old saga.

_The Song of Ronald._

“Terry!” she shouts, “Watch out on your left!”

***

There is noise echoing from every direction, and Ginny finds that her own breath and the closeness of the Invisibility Cloak make distinguishing one battle from another almost impossible.

“There,” Luna murmurs, pointing past Ginny’s face through the door at the end of the corridor. Just like Charlie said. The sound there seems denser, and the fighting more furious, which certainly seems a good indication that Harry is likely nearby.

Two hulking girls are standing guard on either side of the door, keeping an eye on the empty corridor while occasionally shooting hexes back into the room. “It’s Bullstrode and Davis,” Ginny whispers, surprised to be happy to see the two Slytherins. Behind them, Ginny spots Anthony Goldstein firing curses at something black, something the size of one of the pigs Mum sometimes keeps, only this has a lot more legs. Cho Chang is trying to shield them both.

“If the DA are there,” Luna murmurs, “Harry must be too.”

Nodding in agreement, Ginny moves forward alongside Luna, trying hard not to think too deeply about just what they are walking into.

***

Godfrey feels a sense of accomplishment when they finally find what is obviously the Lovegood House. The exterior is painted with dozens of nonsensical, whimsical creatures and over the door a sign reads _Love’s Lodge_.

He and his two henchmen ( _Greg always used to say_ Frenchmen _, it was so cute_ ) simply blow the door off of the hinges. No need for subtlety, and at this point they are all tired and ready to kill Lovegood for printing all of those stories about the Dark Lord, if possible grab his daughter—one of Potter’s little friends—and then go home. It’s already been a long day, and they want to get it over with.

At first, Godfrey fears that they’ve come all of this way for nothing: the kitchen is dark and quiet, and the other downstairs rooms cluttered but empty. Faversham indulges in a bit of mayhem in the kitchen, but honestly, none of them have the energy.

The two junior Death Eaters stay downstairs—“To guard the exits,” says Thompson, but Godfrey suspects that it’s because they frankly can’t be bothered.

Upstairs, the first two bedrooms are just as disappointing, but in the last Godfrey Goyle comes across what may be the greatest find of his career as a Death Eater: asleep in a small bed—a small bed with pink and green ruffles, no less—he discovers a skinny, dark-haired boy with a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead.

It will be Godfrey’s privilege to bring Harry Potter before the Dark Lord tonight.

Before Godfrey can begin to enjoy his unexpected success, the boy’s eyes fly open. “Oh,” he says, and something else—a curse evidently, because a light flashes out from under the girly bedclothes, and Godfrey’s digestive tract, which is uncooperative under the best of circumstances, rebels altogether.

 _What a long, dreary night_ , he thinks as he sinks to his knees and tries to ignore the embarrassing stench.

***

As she and Ginny slide along the edge of the chaos under the Invisibility Cloak, Luna finds it odd that she is thinking about sex, and about love. Not so odd perhaps, since Ginny’s bedroom scent fills Luna’s nostrils, but definitely cognitively dissonant.

“We should help!” Ginny whispers again—she’s wanted to throw off the cloak since before they entered the anteroom.

“We are here to help Harry,” Luna reminds her.

Groaning, Ginny nods, and they continue to stalk forward.

George Weasley, who is bleeding, eviscerates one particularly large Acromantula with a well-cast Slicing Hex. Ichor splatters the bookshelves just in front of Ginny and Luna.

“Neville!” Hermione calls out—she is standing astride Susan Bones in the midst of a circle of loveseat-sized Acromantulae—“Help Ron! Pansy! Help Ron!” Her wand sends out a golden flare that removes several legs from the spider that has been attempting to nibble at her foot.

It is sad to see such wonderful creatures die; Luna thinks how sad Professor Hagrid will be when he hears about this, but she assumes that he will see the necessity as she does.

Even so, Luna is relieved to see Hermione unleg another, and to see Susan lean up, cast a curse of her own, and Apparate away.

More of the creatures flow out of the room with the blasted door. “Harry must be in there,” Ginny says, her voice steely as it only gets when she is afraid. They slide by Pansy Parkinson, who seems to be preparing herself for her own rush towards the other room.

Ronald Weasley stands in the middle of the doorway, flaming blade and wand slashing about, and Luna is just about to tell Ginny that perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all to stop and help him when he manages to clear a the door of spiders for a moment; Ginny pulls Luna through into the chamber where Harry is facing Voldemort.

Luna is still looking back at Ronald. Pansy Parkinson sees the same opening that Ginny did and launches herself forward, only to be met immediately by two huge spiders—the last two left in this room.

Ronald blinks, screams, and starts to charge forward to help Pansy when a small Acromantula—perhaps two feet across—drops from the archway above the door onto his shoulder. He screeches—in fear at first, which is not a surprise since anyone is likely to be rather shocked to have a cat-sized spider drop on them, even if they don’t happen to be arachnophobic as Luna knows Ronald to be, and then in pain as the spider sinks its fangs into his flesh. His face turns white and he drops to his knees, the sword flying out of his hand and sliding to rest near Luna’s feet; it is still flaming and the wood of the flooring sends up acrid smoke.

“Bugger,” Ron Weasley says, and Luna is amazed that she hears his quiet voice making itself heard through all of the tumult.

Hermione Granger incinerates the spider with a blast from her wand but Luna can see that even she knows that it is too late.

***

Percy has never seen the Lovegood house look like anything but a pigsty, yet even so he is shocked to find the front door in pieces and the kitchen turned upside down. In spite of what two Ministers have reiterated and his own beliefs have told him, he cannot deny the voice that whispers that this is the work of Death Eaters, and he cannot help but feel a stab of guilt that little Ginny may be hurt. Or worse.

Never a fighter like his brothers, Percy still finds himself sprinting up the stairs, his wand out, if shaking somewhat.

***

Hermione starts to scramble forward—“Davis! Bullstrode! The hallway’s secure! Come help!”—starts to go towards where Gryffindor’s sword is smoldering in the midst of an empty patch of floor not far from Harry and Voldemort.

But then she reaches Ron.

And she cannot go any further.

***

Zacharias Apparates to the coordinates given on the coin, feeling an idiot to be arriving _now_ , when he will be of no use and will only look a fool. He finds himself in the midst of a copse of trees, with what sounds distinctly like the clamor of a battle raging nearby. He tries to get his bearings—honestly, he considers giving the whole thing up for a bad job and going home—when a redheaded man carrying what looks to be a body appears out of thin air ahead of him. “Bloody hell!” the man snaps. “Missed the f…”

He catches sight of Zacharias and stops swearing. “Great,” he says, sweat and blood flowing down his scarred face. “Here,” he says, shoving a bleeding woman in Auror’s uniform into Zacharias’s arms. “She’s been bitten! A _werewolf_! Take her to Pomfrey!”

“But—!” Zacharias says, choking on his astonishment.

“Go!” the man screams. A roar like a dragon’s rolls through the wood, and the man’s ponytail whips around. “I’ve more wounded to Apparate back, now go!”

With a _crack_ , the man disappears again.

The woman groans, and Zacharias is suddenly aware that she is not dead, nor is she exactly a tiny creature, and he has no idea where Madam Pomfrey might be. Struggling under her weight, he wanders towards where there seems to be some light through the trees.

Annoyed and panicked though he may be, Zacharias cannot help but feel pleased to be doing something useful.

Now if only he can manage to keep her from dying.

***

As you take down the second spider—Longbottom’s shot from behind you blinds the creature—you hear Granger squealing, “Ron! Ron!” It sounds not entirely unlike the sounds that she was making earlier today, but…

You turn. She is cradling his head in her lap, even as the battle continues around her. He is pale—paler than Draco, so that from this distance his freckles look almost black. Eyelashes fluttering, he gazes up into her eyes; he is saying something, or trying.

Unthinking, you stumble towards him. Towards them.

***

At the top of the stairs, Percy finds two men in black robes and white masks peering into cupboards and doorways. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” says one.

“Expelliarmus!” Percy shouts, his voice impossibly high as he points his wand at the closer figure; to their mutual astonishment, the man’s wand flies to Percy’s hand.

Unfortunately, the second man—a Death Eater? Can they possibly actually be…?—turns his wand on Percy. There is another shout—“Stupefy!”—and Percy flinches, waiting for a flash of red light to hit him. Instead, the other man topples forward, revealing the very naked, surprisingly _mature_ figure of Harry Potter standing with his wand in hand.

“Thank you, Harry,” Percy manages to say. “Where, may I ask, is my little sister, and why aren’t you wearing any clothing?”

***

Ginny remembers reading the story in _The Quibbler_ , remembers feeling her breath catch when she read the section about Voldemort’s wand and Harry’s locking together. Seeing the scene play itself out again before her, Ginny is struck breathless now too, but for different reasons: the terrible look on Harry’s face, dark and blazing at the same time, like some beautiful predator’s; the horrific obscenity of a face that has obliterated the handsome Tom Riddle that so beguiled her once, as if the hell-black ugliness of his soul is finally showing through the once-beautiful façade; Peter Pettigrew, who Ginny never liked even as a rat, standing to Voldmort’s side, wand in his silver hand, dithering nervously; the twisting serpent of flame between Voldemort’s wand and Harry’s; and the very real serpent that is slithering around to Harry’s side. Ginny is about to fling off the cloak and attack the snake ( _A Horcrux! Hermione said…!_ ) when Voldemort’s high, rasping voice rings out. “Oh, look, Harry, one of my old playmates has come to join our little party, and she has brought along one of _her_ little playmates as well.”

Ginny realizes that the red eyes are focused directly through the Invisibility Cloak.

“Wormtail!” Voldemort snaps. Pettigrew turns, raises the silver hand and reaches out—from across the room he pulls the cloak off of Ginny and Luna, revealing them.

“No!” Harry screams, twisting and breaking the link between his wand and Voldemort’s.

Nagini rears back to take advantage of the opening, and Ginny doesn’t think. Her hand reaches down and finds the handle to the heavy sword by her feet.

She hears Voldemort’s voice scream, “Expelliarmus!” She tightens her grip, but the spell was not aimed at her—Harry’s wand flies from his hand. Ginny does not pause; in a single motion she sweeps the sword up, flings herself across the room and brings Gryffindor’s flaming blade around and through the neck of Voldemort’s last Horcrux.

Voldemort starts to growl a curse—Ginny fully expects to die now, is content, knowing that she has made it possible for Harry to kill Voldemort—but Luna casts a Stunning Hex that glances the inhuman figure’s shoulder, and a bolt of green light flies at the ceiling, shattering a crystal chandelier.

“ _Enough!_ ” screams Voldemort. He flings a hex at Luna that knocks her from her feet and another at Ginny that she dodges, but that sends her sprawling. Then he brings Harry’s wand together with his in his right hand and aims both at Harry, who stands there, unarmed and yet somehow awesome. “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Before the curse can leave the paired wands, a silver hand swings down and engulfs them, crushing them like twigs. Emerald lightning flares up from the broken wands and encircles the hand’s bearer, and Peter Pettigrew’s last sound is a squeak; he crumples to the ground with a look of astonishment on his face as if the action that killed him was as much of a surprise to him as to any of those observing.

Scrambling up, Ginny starts to cast a curse—Harry can kill the bastard, but Ginny’s always wanted to know how a man with no nose would like the Bat-Bogey Hex—but Harry holds a hand up and says, simply, “No.”

***

“DO SOMETHING!” you shout, “We’ve got to DO SOMETHING!” Hand grasping Ron’s ankle you try to think of everything that you ever knew about healing medicine, which is next to nothing, or about Side-Along Apparation, which you know for a fact that you can’t do. But you can’t just _sit here_ …

Head still in Hermione’s lap, Ron laughs wanly. “T… Tell her.”

Hermione’s face looks as if it were carved from marble. “The venom passed directly into the spinal column.” White fingers move through absurdly red hair. “Some things even phoenix tears can’t cure.”

***

“Thank you, Mr. Smith!” Poppy Pomfrey shouts, sending the scowling boy off to Apparate Kingsley to St. Mungo’s—they’ll be better suited to help him try to regrow his leg. The flow from the battle seems to be slowing, which could be good news or bad.

Most are easy enough to tend to—minor curses and flesh wounds. Sturgis Podmore and Ullyses Gyre are both already back at the manor, bless them, and a number of the others are already on their feet—Susan Bones is helping tend them, her own arm still freshly bandaged—but a few…

Poppy pulls Molly Weasley away from one of her twins—“ _How many times have I told you not to play with fire_!”—and encourages her to work with someone she’s not related to.

***

“I didn’t use his hair, as it happens,” says Harry—or rather, says young Eri Nott, whose father Percy helped to place in Azkaban just last year. He— _she_ pulls the blanket tightly around her. “I used—”

“Well, I’m not sure that it matters. What interests me is the whereabouts of my sister. She was supposed to stay safely here.” He knows that Ginny is sixteen, but in his mind’s eye he sees the young girl who nearly died in the Chamber of Secrets, whose obsession with thrill-seeking Harry Potter nearly killed her.

Eri gives him precisely the answer he is dreading. “She’s gone off to fight at Harry’s side, of course, and Luna with her.”

***

Battle sounds blare on in the other room, but here it is still. Ignoring the pain where the hex hit her, Luna watches with fascination as Harry walks slowly towards Voldemort, who seems to be wincing under Harry’s stare. ( _Headaches, pale…_ )

Harry’s eyes do not twinkle as Professor Dumbledore’s did when he peers into your soul. They burn a deep ocean green.

The huge, gilded clock against the wall starts to tell the hour, the bells low and solemn.

“It’s not Halloween anymore, Tom,” Harry says. “Do you know what today is?”

Voldemort’s back hits the wall near the clock. He doesn’t answer.

“Today is called All Hallows,” Luna answers for him. It has always been her favorite holiday. “Or Samhain.”

Harry spares her a brief smile before turning back to Voldemort. “It’s the day when dead spirits are supposed to be laid to rest. And Tom, it’s time you stopped running away too.” His hands rise up and grasp the Dark Lord’s white face. He starts to turn…

And with the tiniest puff of a _pop_ , they are gone.

***

“S-sorry,” Ron says, looking up at Hermione who is weeping but _smiling_ , and you want to slap them both, the whole thing is _SO FUCKING…_

“S-sorry, P-p…” Those blue, bottomless eyes are on you, and suddenly you cannot even scream.

Someone sprints by you, knocking into you—Longbottom. “Sorry!” he shouts, but he is already gone.

“Cold,” Ron murmurs and shudders, his eyes closing.

***

“You all right, Olympe?” Hagrid kneels beside Madam Maxime, whose dark skin is white. She is clutching her arm.

“I…” she says, grimacing. “They are talking, that is all that matters.”

“Codswollop,” grunts Hagrid, running experienced fingers along her wonderfully massive humerus. “Got a break, here, see?”

She hisses when he touches the spot.

“ _Whiteface doesn’t treat you right, does he?_ ” Bludfen says to Harbag, the other giantess, and head of the Dark Lord’s giant clan. “ _Does he talk to you like a giant, or like a rock?_ ”

They are sitting in a circle in what used to be the front lawn of the Malfoy house. Not one is unbruised, but all are listening. After beating on each other for months, they have finally come to settle this the way that giants do—a fight and then a talk.

Harbag just grunts.

“ _Hagger talks true,_ ” Grawp says, pointing to his half-brother. “ _His humans only want what we want—us to have some mountains to ourselves, and deer and cows to eat, and no nasty humans trying to tell us what to do or poking us with their sticks._ ”

The other giants chew on this. One rips up a small laurel and throws it, just to help him think.

Hagrid pulls up his umbrella.

“’Agrid, shouldn’t—?”

“Now, Olympe, on this you gotter trust me,” he says, “but no one knows how to set a big bone like this better than me, right?” He winks and taps her arm with his umbrella. She flinches, expecting pain, but instead feels magic knitting the bone back together. “There you go.”

“ _Oh._ _Merçi._ ”

***

Neville expects to find Harry here, and You Know Who, but they are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a huge dead snake on the floor, the body of a man with a weak chin and a pointy nose, and Luna holding on to a clearly agitated Ginny, who is brandishing a sword with flames shooting out of it, just like the one the angel was holding in the Children’s Bible that Gran used to read from. Ginny’s language, though, is anything but angelic.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks.

“ _That’s exactly the bloody fucking question, now, isn’t it_?” Ginny shrieks. “Where the fucking hell did he _fucking_ —?”

“You don’t need a wand for Apparating, you know,” says Luna, who is stroking Ginny’s hair.

“But _where—?_ ” Ginny howls, and Neville has to step back to avoid the blade.

There is a sudden burst of flame, and for a moment, Neville is terrified that the sword has caught his robes on fire, but in the small space between him and the girls a bird appears from the midst of the blaze. A phoenix.

“ _FAWKES!_ ” gasps Ginny.

The bird sings, and Neville feels as if he’s just been wrapped in a blanket. Ginny’s eyes go from panic-wide and white to their normal brown. Luna hums along. “Harry says his name is actually Firesong.” Whatever his name, the phoenix hops up onto Neville’s shoulder and sings again. “I think he wants us to come with him,” Luna says.

“Come on, Neville,” Ginny says, eyes fiercely bright, reaching out to take hold of one of the scarlet tail feathers. “The three of us again, right?”

Neville feels a moment of the old panic: does he really belong here? Will he just make a mess of things?

“Bear but a touch of my hand there,” Luna murmurs, placing one set of long fingers on his chest as the others take hold of the phoenix’s tail, “and you shall be upheld in more than this.”

Neville knows this is right. Susan Apparated back to the main camp and Madam Pomfrey. This is why he came—to help Harry. To defeat Voldemort. Nodding, he places his hand beside the two girls’ on Fawkes’s tail, and with a burst of gold and red, finds himself flying beside them through space.

***

George pops into the clearing where they’d set up the field hospital. “Fred? Fred?”

“Here!” calls his twin, and George feels relief wash over him. Fred is sitting up; the left side of his face has been bandaged, but the eye looks fine. “What you doing here, Georgy-porgy?”

“It’s over!” George whispers. “The Death Eaters have all given up, and the spiders…” George doesn’t think that he can tell even Fred about Ron just yet. Not yet. “Voldemort’s gone, and Harry too, no one knows where.”

“Harry-arse’ll show up,” Fred says. “Ginny’ll kill’im if he doesn’t.”

“True.” Padma swears that she saw Ginny in the room with Voldemort, and Luna too, but George can’t credit that.

There’s a _pop_ beside them and a wild-eyed Percy Weasley stares at them. “Fred! George! Where’s _—_? AHHH!”

He throws his hands in front of his face; both twins have raised their wands to curse the git.

“Where’s Ah?” Fred says. “No bloody idea you bloody prat. Now what are you—?”

There’s another _pop_ and yet another of the twins least favorite people, Zacharias Smith appears as well. “Oh!”

“Ah? Oh?” says George. “We’ve got a _Cho_ and a _Li_ , but no _Ah_ or _Oh_ that I know of. Fred?”

“Really!” mutters Percy.

“Look,” says Smith. “I’ve just come from St. Mungo’s and… Is Bilius Weasley related to you?”

“Our eldest brother,” says George. Fred looks as perplexed as George feels.

“Can I find…? Or maybe… Yes, maybe you can tell him.”

“Tell him? Tell him what?”

“His…” Smith’s voice lowers to a low whisper. “His wife. He needs to get to St. Mungo’s. If he wants to see her.”

“Oh,” says Fred.

“Ah,” says George. Bloody hell. Poor Bill. Poor Phlegm. Poor Gabrielle.

***

Ginny gasps when she realizes where Fawkes has brought them. They are in a circular room with raised levels; in the center is a stone arch.

But where there used to be nothing but a black, ominous curtain, Ginny can now see through—not to the other side of the room, but to another amphitheater with a sandy floor. The sky above is flaming gold and red, and vague, dark figures sit in the stands opposite.

In the center, Harry and Voldemort are wrestling in what looks to be a match to the death.

“Harry!” Sword in one hand, wand in the other, Luna and Neville at her side, Ginny sprints down towards the arch.

“You can’t go in,” says a light voice from behind her; all three spin, wands up.

A young woman is standing at the top of the room. Her hair is a rich auburn that glows in the light from the archway, and her eyes are a very familiar, pickle-toad green.

“You’re Lily Potter,” says Luna, and for once even she sounds surprised.

The woman grins and it makes Ginny’s heart drop into her belly: it is Harry’s grin, down to the way one of the teeth rests on top of the bottom lip. “After a fashion. The whole ‘self’ thing is a lot different on the far side of that veil.”

“The…” Ginny looks down at the combat below, and then back to Lily Potter’s specter. “What _is_ that place? It’s behind the veil—is Harry…?”

“It is the Deadly Hallows, Miss Weasley,” says the redhead in a tone that makes Ginny’s heart take another trip right back up into her throat. The voice and face have not changed, and yet there is no question in Ginny’s mind that that was the late headmaster speaking. “It is a place between life and death, a place that only comes into being under certain very specific conditions, conditions which Harry and Tom met this morning.”

“Oh, how nice,” Luna sighs. “It _is_ morning. I wondered whether it was dusk or dawn, you see.”

“Yes, Popkin, it is dawn that you see there—and sunset too. It is always one and always the other.”

Luna’s mouth drops open, and her eyes, always wide, stretch to perfect circles.

“How can we _help_?” says Neville, his voice low and urgent. “We can’t just _stand_ here!”

“There’s a reason that you are here, no doubt,” says Lily Potter’s face, which is still smiling even as her son and the man who killed her struggle below. “Whatever that reason may be, without question you will know soon enough.”

***

Harry is aware of their presence—Ginny and Luna and Neville—but it feels as if they are watching him from the moon. At the moment, all that he can afford to pay attention to is Voldemort, whose cold, nailless fingers he is trying to push away from his own throat. The gold of the chain on which Ginny’s locket hangs bites into Harry’s neck, but he cannot pay any mind to that either.

“Thought it would be so easy to get rid of me, did you, boy?” Voldemort says—or rather does not say. Their minds were inextricably linked before and in this place their thoughts flow freely back and forth even as breath and life are squeezed. “Push me through the veil and be done with me? I am immortal, fool! I cannot die!”

 _You’re mad,_ Harry thinks, and does not mind that Voldemort will hear him. Ginny. And Luna. And Neville. Yes. Not worrying about his burning lungs and throat, he focuses on everything that he feels. For them. For their families. For their friends. For Ron and Hermione and Dean Thomas and Lee Jordan and Demelza Robbins and Tonks and Remus and Professor McGonagall and Ginny’s parents and Luna’s father and Neville’s gran, and it is as if he can see the net that Luna talked about in her letter, the bright, magical net that binds him to them and all of them to each other. He can hear Firesong signing, or perhaps he’s just blacking out, but he can sense it all—love, and magic, and time, and music, just like Luna said—and it is _beautiful._

“ _Look_ ,” he says, though he cannot breathe, and he offers his vision to the other: a gift.

Gift thought it may be, Voldemort screams in agony at it as if he were being forced to look into the sun. He falls back from Harry, and for a moment, Harry feels triumphant—he has fought free! Breath rushes like flame into his lungs. Surely that will do it!

And yet, writhing on the ground though Voldemort is, he is not pulled out of this between place and into what Dumbledore called _the next great adventure_ that Tom Riddle has been flying from all of his life. Voldemort is trying to stand. Red eyes look up, and he smiles a lipless smile, even as he topples back to the sand, Harry’s vision still searing in whatever it is he’s got to call a soul.

 _That tiny bit of soul in his body_ , Harry hears a voice call, a voice that sounds surprisingly like Ron’s. _That’s holding him here._ Harry looks around stupidly at the vague shapes watching from the stands. Harry knows Voldemort’s strength and his own. He may be able to kill his opponent, but unarmed, it is just as likely that Voldemort will kill him.

“HARRY!” calls a voice—Neville’s—and Harry and Voldemort both turn to it.

***

Luna watches Neville toss his wand through the archway, and is struck by what a simple solution that was. The specter who carries the face of Lily Potter said that _they_ could not go through, not if they wanted to return, but the _wand…_

Voldemort and Harry both reach up for the eleven inches of holly wood with the phoenix feather core, but Neville threw it well, and Harry has the better position; he plucks it out of the air and turns toward his adversary.

“YES!” cries Ginny, and Luna thinks it—she always thinks it, really. Neville looks stunned to have done something perfectly.

The question of course is what spell Harry will use. **Observations:** Harry Potter’s purpose in this moment is to sever forever Tom Marvolo Riddle’s link to the world of the living. **Hypotheses:**

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” shouts Harry.

 _Yes,_ Luna thinks, _that makes sense. Though…_

The green light spears the cringing hooded figure, who shrieks.

And remains cowering where he is, still not quite dead.

“HA!” laughs Voldemort humorlessly. “And so now you are not alone in having survived the Killing Curse, Harry Potter!”

 **Hypotheses:** Something is holding what remains of Tom Marvolo Riddle to the mortal plane. That something must in some way be tied to Harry Potter or he would not be trapped in the same limbo as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle have been bound, first by some link through Harry’s scar, and then through the blood that formed a part of the ritual that brought Voldemort back to life. **Inferences** : When Tom Marvolo Riddle attempted to murder Harry Potter, he left a piece of his own soul there. When Peter Pettigrew (who must have reached the Other Side by now, and who Luna hopes has apologized to the Potters) drew Harry’s blood and added it to the cauldron as part of the ritual that brought about Tom Marvolo Riddle’s re-incarnation, that link was strengthened and made substantial. Harry Potter has become, _de facto_ , a Horcrux for Tom Marvolo Riddle. **Possiblecourses of action:** The only way to destroy a Horcrux—

Harry looks up from the Deathly Hallows, and calls out, “Firesong. Please.”

With a forlorn cry, the phoenix dives towards the archway.

Looking towards Ginny—and towards Luna, and towards Neville, but really towards Ginny, for it was to her that he made so many promises, spoken and unspoken—he mouths, _I’m sorry_.

Voldemort screams again—glimpsing perhaps Harry’s intent in his mind.

Firesong bursts into flame against Harry’s forehead, and the whole of the Deathly Hallows explodes into a conflagration even brighter the phoenix-colored sunrise that it eclipses.

“No!” moan Ginny and Neville.

“Yes,” murmur Luna and the ghost of Harry’s mother.

  
  


***

"And so, Mr. Goyle," says Mercury Lovegood, Quick Quotes Quill scribbling frantically beside him, "after young Mr. Weasley's heroic death, what happened next?"

Gregory Goyle pokes at the bandage at his temple uncomfortably. He's clearly not used to being asked questions, which makes him a perfect interviewee. "Well, still lots of spiders, you know. And in the other room, there was a lot of yelling about—Longbottom and that Weasley girl and that weird blonde bint she's always hanging about with."

"Luna," says Mercury, and the Quick Quotes Quill drops the ground."Luna Lovegood."

"Yeah! That's the one!" says Gregory Goyle, a lumpy grin appearing on his face.

***

Charlie feels cold, for all that his face and the insides of his legs are scorched.

Mum weeps over Ron’s body. Dad stands behind her, face slack, his hand stroking Hermione Granger’s hair. The twins— _the twins—_ are crying. It’s just…

Bill _pops_ into the field hospital, and Charlie doesn’t even have to ask; he just goes over and throws his arms around his oldest brother’s shoulders. Bill, who always seems to have an answer, never seems to be fussed—Bill begins to cry. For Fleur. For Ronnie. For poor Remus.

Not for Tonks. “You saved Tonks, Bill,” Charlie whispers. “You did that.”

“Couldn’t keep her from getting bit, now could I?” snivels Bill.

“But at least she’s alive.”

Percy stands alone, pale and stiff as ever, but looking thoroughly human.

After some time, it is Mum who finally calls an end to tonight’s grieving. “Come along,” she says. “We have to get back home and tell Ginny all the news, the good and the bad.”

A cold weight settles in Charlie’s stomach, but before he can say anything, Percy speaks up. “As to that, Mother…” he says, “I don’t think that you’ll be finding her in Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Mum looks up, and clearly sees Percy for the first time, and her face tries to encompass so many expressions—surprise, joy, curiosity, fear—that it ends up blank.

***

The archway is dark again, and Harry’s body lying in a pile of ash. Ginny is wailing, wiping the soot from Harry’s face; his forehead is clear and scarless. The sword, its flame finally extinguished, lies forgotten at her side.

Neville sits on one of the steps, his head in his hands.

Luna kneels beside Ginny and strokes her hair; Ginny seems to fight against the softness of the gesture. “If you t-try to tell me that th-those we love are always with us, I’ll hex you,” she says, and then she throws her arms around Luna’s waist.

“Oh, I hardly need to do that,” answers Luna. “The important thing, I think, is that The-Person-Who-No-One-Really-Knew is on that side of the veil, and Harry Potter is on this one.”

For some reason, Neville finds that amusing.

“Oy, Ginny,” says the ghost, who is walking towards the veil, “tell Hermione I love her. And tell Mum and Dad I’m sorry.”

Ginny looks up. “Ron?” she asks, though Luna suspects she does not truly need to do so.

In any case, the redheaded phantom does not answer, but disappears silently through the torn curtain and into the darkness beyond.

***

It’s been a funny sort of Hallowe’en, no question. The Hog’s Head has been packed all night, but it’s been as quiet as a crypt. The crowd—regulars and newcomers—have all been sitting here, nursing their ale. Waiting.

When Aberforth emerges from his hiding place for the first time in four months or more, Aadi doesn’t even need to hear what he has to say; she simply starts lining up the glasses that she’s been polishing all night.

“Drinks on me,” grumbles the old barkeep. “It’s over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art is TomScribble, detail from “Escape” — used with permission.
> 
> A/N: Yeah. I know. Some of you probably hate me now. And some of you aren't sure but think it's possible that you might hate me. (And one of you is cheering!)
> 
> For those of you sharpening your pitchforks, I have only this to offer: it's not over yet, and also, though I'm hopeful that JKR isn't going to have quite so much loss packed in to quite so little space [ETA well... not _quite_ so much], we know that some of the characters that we love are going to go; perhaps this made canon tragedy less hard, maybe? I tried to do the characters justice here. I hope that... Well, I won't say that I hope you enjoyed it, exactly, but I hope this worked for you in all its blood-and-guts, jump-cut glory.
> 
> Yes, we have only one more chapter and then the epilogue... And neither of them is going to be anywhere near 12,500 words, I promise you! Lots to wrap up so quickly, don't you think?


	37. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seize the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the posting delay!
> 
> Thanks to my beta aberforths_rug for being in it for the long run.

Daphne stares out the window, watching the trees flicker by, a green wash. There’s a sort of satisfaction in punishing herself with the flatness of it.

Not that Daphne enjoys punishing herself—or feels the need really. She’s happy to be on the train, but in all honesty, she’s happy that no one has bothered joining her. She feels monstrous and naked enough; company will just make it worse.

Pansy, of course, is already at Hogwarts—she’s doing something in the hospital wing this year to help pay her tuition, which just seems…. Most of the rest of the Slytherins have decided to forgo their seventh year—like Daphne they’re feeling terribly _scrutinized,_ no matter that they fought for the winning side.

Daphne hardly fought. Wouldn’t have talked poor Teddy into bringing her and his sister if she’d really thought that she might have to face curses. And yet here she is.

Poor Teddy.

No. It is better to ride alone. Dignified. Unfussed.

It shouldn’t surprise Daphne that there comes a knock at her door at precisely that moment. It shouldn’t, but it does.

She turns her head—instinctively, she does not face the door fully.

Anthony is standing at the glass, looking terribly serious and terribly sincere.

Sighing, Daphne nods him in. She’s been putting this off for far too long. She might as well get it over with.

“Hi,” he murmurs. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head.

Two months ago, she’d have been beside herself to have Anthony alone in a train compartment. There’ve been so many plans, so many stratagems that she’s dreamed up for just this eventuality. All for naught.

He steps in, but does not close the door behind him—allowing for a quick escape, no doubt. “How are you?” he asks. Everyone seems to feel compelled to ask that, even though they really don’t want to hear the answer. Pansy at least was willing to let her moan and shout and wallow a bit. Pansy’s so fucked up at the moment that listening to Daphne seems to give her a kind of relief.

“Ducky,” snaps Daphne. She doesn’t mean to snap at him, but honestly, she can’t help it. “How do you think?”

He nods; his eyes don’t seem to know where to look—at least he doesn’t settle for staring at her chest like most boys. Finally, he summons his courage and looks up into her face. “I’m glad you let me in.”

 _Wouldn’t want to deny you your chance to gawk at the freak,_ she thinks, and she knows it’s uncharitable, but the rage gives her a sense of something like her old attitude.

“There’s… There’s something I want to ask you.” He is looking pale; his eyes keep flicking to the side of her face that she keeps turned away.

“What?” she asks, and though she doesn’t mean it, she can feel the vitriol spilling out. “ _Does it hurt much? Can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror? Is there a **hole**?_”

“No!” he says, his face falling. His hand grabs at hers, and in spite of herself again she lets him. “Daphne, please. Look at me.”

Grudgingly, she allows her gaze to rise back up to his face—it was a soft face once, and it is still lovely, but there is something hard there now, as there is for all of them.

His free hand rises to her chin. “Please. _Look_ at me.”

Anthony’s eyes are a gold-flecked brown, and Daphne’s been losing herself in them for well over a year, yet it still takes an enormous effort simply to turn her face fully to his. Those eyes round, and Daphne feels a kind of dread, waiting for a gasp of disgust or a sneer or disappointment.

There is none. Instead, his eyes focus first on the right side of her face, and then back to meet her Cyclops gaze. “Wrote a sonnet about your eyes in my head once during Herbology. _A grey more grey than greyest Shrivelfig_ , or something like that.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out, all of the while lancing Daphne with his mild gaze. “You’re beautiful.”

She starts to pull away, to shout at him, but soft hands hold her in place.

“You’re _beautiful_. I’ve wanted to tell you that for months. And I was too stupid and too frightened to say—frightened of what, I’ve no idea. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year it’s that you can’t be frightened of what might happen. _Carpe diem_ and all that. Seize the day. You’re beautiful. I think you’re beautiful.”

“I…” Daphne’s stomach is tying itself in knots. A part of her wants to scream, _No, I bloody well am **not**!_ A part of her wants to howl that even _before_ she wasn’t much to look at, clearly not enough to catch _his_ eye, and now? But the other part is hearing what he’s said, and simply vibrating like some sort of bell because he’s just said things that she’s been dying to hear—from _anyone_ , but most recently from his mouth. And here, he’s said them. “I’m hideous.”

He scowls and raises a thumb to where the strap comes down across her cheek, holding the bloody patch in place. “Don’t say that,” he says—it isn’t an order or a reprimand, more like a strong, well-researched and well-thought-through suggestion. Like Anthony. He smiles. “It’s… _dashing._ ”

She can’t help it—she snorts. “ _Dashing?_ ”

Again he scowls, but this time it’s a scowl she recognizes. He doesn’t know what to do when he’s being teased; it is a weakness she would dearly love to exploit. “Yes. Dashing.”

Maybe some other day.

He tilts his head and studies her face. “It’s like proof that you’re not just…” He gets a funny, sad look on her face. “Not just… vivacious. And, um, pretty. _Beautiful_. You’re… You put yourself in harm’s way because of your friends, and because it was the right thing to do.”

“Didn’t think I was going to get cursed in the face,” she blurts—she doesn’t want him thinking she was being _self-sacrificing_ or _noble_ or some other Gryffindor hogwash. Only—

He smiles, again a bit sadly and brings his other hand up to the opposite cheek. “I didn’t think I was going to get Stunned by our own side.”

“No,” she says, and they sit there, touching as she’s wanted to touch since forever, and she feels two impulses simultaneously: one is to throw herself on top of him and show him just how _vivacious_ she can be, and second, to pull up the patch and show him the cloudy purple snow globe that is her right eye, just to see if he still thinks she’s beautiful. But however brave he may think her, she’s not feeling nervy as _that_ today. Just coming and sitting on this train used up Daphne’s supply of nerve for the day, thank you very much. Though, as he said, _seize the day…_ “So… was _that_ what you wanted to ask me about?”

“Ask?”

“Well, you said—”

“Oh!” His hands drop from her face, and suddenly he looks quite anxious.

Now that he’s the one who has to be brave, some of Daphne’s playfulness returns. “Would it help if I told you that whatever it is,” she says, leaning closer, “I promise to say _yes_?”

She watches his eyelids flicker. “You… promise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Um…” Gold-flecked brown eyes round again and seem to be searching out her mouth. “Um… May I… Will you…”

“Yes. I will.” _You may._

“Go with me on the first Hogsmeade weekend?” These last words burst out of his mouth in a rush, as out of a burst balloon.

“Y… _What?_ ” She goggles for a moment and then laughs. “You call yourself a Ravenclaw? You could have asked me to do… I don’t know… Write up clean copies of all your essays or clean your dormitory or serve as you _sex slave_ ”—she leans closer so that her breasts are touching him and it is delicious to feel him react—“and you ask me to go with you to _Hogsmeade_?”

He laughs too and Daphne feels better than she has since that night. “It… It was what I thought of asking before and I…” Now he’s definitely pressing back against her. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“I see,” she says, reveling not only in his closeness, and in the fact that he didn’t run out of the room, but actually seems to _want_ … “Well, I’ve already agreed to go with you to Hogsmeade. We’ll have to see about all of those other things, won’t we, Anthony?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Only don’t expect them to come so _easily_.”

His eyes round again, and then crinkle as he smiles. Daphne discovers that one time when it is a good thing having one eye instead of two is when a boy’s face is just inches from yours and you want to _watch_ him make the decision to lean forward and—

“Anthony, there you— _Oh_! So sorry! I’ll…”

Daphne blinks, only to find Anthony turned to the door, and no longer quite so close. “Wait, Hermione!” he calls, and a bushy-haired figure freezes in the act of running out of the door. “Please. Is there something that needs doing?”

“Oh,” Granger mumbles as she turns back around, “nothing important. It can wait for our meeting with the headmistress.”

Anthony nods, and Daphne suddenly notices—now that she is looking at something other than his eyes—the gold pin on his lapel engraved with the letters _HB_. “Oh!” she says, “Anthony!” And then, again seeing something other than his eyes: “Anthony! You shaved your moustache!”

He is blinking, his head swiveling back and forth between Daphne and Granger. “I… I thought it was rather pathetic. But if you liked it I could—”

“No—no, I think it looks…. He looks very nice, don’t you think, Hermione?” Daphne turns to the other girl and it as if she were looking not at another girl but at a portrait entitled _Sorrow_ or _Study in Blue_ or something equally dreary. “I mean…”

“I think he looks… lovely,” says Granger, wanly attempting a smile. “Well, I’m sure there are some things that I need—”

“Don’t go,” Daphne says, and Anthony and Granger look as shocked as she feels that the words left her mouth. “I’ve got… There are things I wanted to ask you. About Dolohov’s Delight. You know.

“Oh.” Granger’s eyes widen and some color comes back into her face. “Of course. Yes, I understand.” She sits opposite Daphne and looks at Daphne in the off-center way that Daphne is learning means that she is looking at the cursed eye. “Does it still hurt?”

“Yeah, a little,” Daphne admits, stopping her hand from rising to cover the patch to hide that side of her face away. “How long did you…?”

“Well,” says Granger, her face still grave but no longer ashen, “it still aches sometimes, if I’ve had to exercise strenuously, or if…” Her hands fold across her stomach. “Well, the real discomfort was gone after a month or so. I had purple welts that didn’t disappear for nearly six months.” Her eyes brighten, clearly focused on the right side of Daphne’s face. “I don’t see any welts on your cheeks. Did Madam Pomfrey—?”

“She got rid of them, but…” Daphne cannot help it; she turns to look out of the window. Why did she keep Granger here? She could be snogging Anthony now. Finally. But no… “I… My… eye. Is purple.”

Granger leans forward. “May I see?”

Daphne feels herself blanche as she turns to the other girl, ready to say _No, you bloody well can’t_! But Anthony is smiling at her, and the fear suddenly is replaced with the knowledge that she’s fallen for a Ravenclaw: until he sees it he won’t be satisfied. _Ah, well_ , she thinks as she raises a trembling hand to the patch, _it was nice while it lasted._

The most awful thing is not having the patch on. While she’s wearing the awful, _dashing_ thing, Daphne can pretend that her eye is merely covered, that it’s closed, that all she has to do is blink, and she’ll see the _shape_ of things again. But off comes the patch, and there is no difference at all. She can feel her eyelid blinking, but her vision is unchanged.

Her good eye focuses on Granger; she doesn’t think that she can look at Anthony just yet.

“Fascinating,” says Granger, her eyes, which had seemed so dead just a few minutes ago, sparkling in that infuriating, swotty way that they’ve always done.

Pansy has been on and on about Granger—Hermione, if you please—for the past few weeks. On and on about how she—Hermione—doesn’t know what she’s lost. On and on about how she—or rather one of them—should have known something to be able to cure Weasley. It looks to Daphne as if Granger—Hermione—has been punishing herself with just the same thoughts.

“Does Madam Pomfrey think—?” she asks.

Daphne shrugs. “Doesn’t know. But after six weeks with no improvement, she’s, you know, not holding out a whole lot of hope.”

“Yes,” Hermione concurs, biting her lip. “Of course, I was hit with a weaker version of the spell, cast without the incantation. I… I’m so sorry.”

Again Daphne shrugs, and then she risks a glance at Anthony. He’s looking at her with that same expression of mild, complete fascination that plants and Runes always seem to evoke in him. “If you tell me _this_ is beautiful, Goldstein, I’ll laugh in your face.”

He shakes his head, and then looks back into her good eye and smiles. “I guess not _beautiful_. But still amazing. Does it…? It seems to give off a kind of glow.”

“Right,” snaps Daphne, “you can use me as a night light.”

“I’d like that,” he answers, so seriously that Daphne has no idea at all if he’s teasing or flirting or just being a git, but she sits there, speechless. His hand squeezes hers—has he been holding it all of this time?—and he laughs, so she does too.

Granger at least manages to smile. “So have you considered getting some sort of magical prosthesis?”

“What, you mean like old Mad-Eye’s? Ta, very much!” snorts Daphne. “Not interested in looking through the back of my own head. Besides, Madam Pomfrey wants to wait a few more months to see if she can get any of my vision back.” _And Daddy can’t afford it_. She shivers, and then squeezes Anthony’s hand back—it’s _so_ nice to _touch_ him after all of this time! “So, how come you never told us? About the whole Head Boy thing? All summer and you kept mum? I know you’re modest to a fault, but come on!”

Anthony’s face falls—modest indeed. “Well, I only found out… a little while ago.” He looks over to Hermione, whose face is pale again, and strained.

“Come on! Blaise got his Prefect badge at the beginning of summer! You can’t tell me they waited…” Daphne, who prides herself on never noticing anything serious—because, after all, why bother?—cannot help but notice the two people in the compartment with her both turning absolutely grey. _Oh._ “It was… one of _them_. Potter. Weasley?”

“It… was Ron,” Hermione answers.

“ _Shit_!” gasps Daphne feeling shame rush to her fair, fat bloody face. “Oh, shit, I am _so_ sorry, don’t ever listen to me, just ask Pansy, you shouldn’t listen to a bloody word I say. Shit.”

“It’s all right,” Hermione says, and she sits up and offers something like a smile. “I’m glad. I’m glad he knew. Before… He knew what Professor McGonagall thought of him. And he knew how proud I was. We were, Harry and I.” She takes a shuddering breath and forces the smile a bit further. “And I’m happy for Anthony too, obviously, and looking forward to working with him over the coming year. Now, I think I’ll just—”

“Hermione, there you are,” says a girl’s voice from the doorway that manages to sound bright and somber at the same time. Daphne blinks and sees that it is the Weasley girl, Ginny, whom she got to know rather better at the DA than she did Hermione.

Loony Lovegood’s face squeezes in next to the redhead’s. “Do you mind if we join you? Neville and Susan seemed rather in need of some privacy at the moment, and since they shortened the train, there aren’t any compartments free.”

Hermione Granger’s eyes look as big as Galleons—as big as Lovegood’s—and Daphne’s about to tell the girls to shove off when Anthony—always the bloody gentlemen, lord bless him—invites them in. Lovegood traipses in and plops down on Anthony’s other side, and Ginny Weasley…

Ginny Weasley enters, pulling the hand of a thin young man with black hair and bright green eyes behind round glasses. His expression is one of great contentment, but his gaze is blank. Blanker than the one that greets Daphne in the mirror every morning.

Like a nanny with a toddler, Ginny leads the Boy Who Lived in and seats him carefully next to Hermione, who looks as if she might vomit.

“Your eye is quite a lovely shade of purple,” says Lovegood, and Daphne suddenly remembers that she took off the patch. She fumbles it back on; Anthony helps adjust the strap at the back of her head. “I’m sorry,” Lovegood says, smiling as if she were quite as mental as she appears to be, and not the master of logic that Anthony has always claimed that she is. “I didn’t realize that I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” Ginny Weasley reaches across the compartment and touches Luna’s knee.

“It’s all right,” mumbles Daphne.

In all honesty, her focus is elsewhere: on Harry Potter, or on the boy who used to be Harry Potter. His forehead is bare of the famous scar—Daphne read the story of its loss in _The Quibbler_ last week—but that isn’t what makes him look not like _him_. Daphne never got to know Potter well, but even across the Great Hall or the other side of the Weasleys’ paddock, his presence burned like a torch. Now the torch seems… burnt out. Absent. “Shouldn’t…? Shouldn’t he be, I dunno, in hospital or something?”

Ginny bites her lip and glances over at Loony, who answers, “Oh, he’s in perfect health. Professor McGonagall asked me and Ginny to bring him up for the Opening Feast tonight.”

Hermione, who has been staring at Potter, shakes her head.

“He looks as if he’s just about to say something, doesn’t he?” murmurs Lovegood dreamily, and it’s true. Only not.

“Ginny,” says Anthony, clearly as thrown by Potter’s non-present-presence as Daphne is, “did you ever find him? You… That day? You had something you wanted to tell him?”

“No,” answers Lovegood. “She never got to tell him—”

“No.” Ginny’s jaw tightens. “I did find him, but we talked about other things.”

Daphne’s ears twitch.

Granger looks back out the window. “All three of you?” she says, her voice pitched uncharacteristically low.

“Yes, all three of us,” burbles Lovegood with a vague but distinctly afterglow-y smile.

Daphne tries to imagine an explanation for that statement and that expression other than the most delicious and disturbing one; she can’t.

“Talking about his will, were you?” asks Hermione with a grim smile.

Well, there’s one Daphne hadn’t thought of.

“Hermione,” Ginny responds; she is looking quite stricken and seems to be the only one of the three who is conscious of Anthony and Daphne sitting there. Of the four, including Potter, who doesn’t seem to be conscious of anything.

Anthony, of course, is trying to disappear through the cushions, but Daphne feels as if she’s watching someone fall from a broom: she couldn’t turn away even if she wanted to.

Hermione shrugs a wordless apology and continues to watch the scenery fly by. The train flies by a long, narrow lake.

“Hermione,” Ginny says again, voice low and insistent. Granger does not move. “Hermione,” continues the little redhead, “how…?” She bites her lip. “How was it at your parents’?”

Granger’s shoulders seem to slump and then to straighten again. “It was… It was as if nothing at all had happened. Bonfire Night fête. People laughing.”

“Life goes on,” says Lovegood, looking rather pleased.

Granger gives a hollow laugh.

Ginny does not look at all pleased. “I… We missed you. At the funeral.”

“At the _funerals_ , don’t you mean?” Another hollow laugh from Granger. “No waiting around in the wizarding world—two or three days, and _whoosh_.” Her fingers mime a burst of flame, and Daphne finds herself shuddering. She missed Teddy’s funeral. Unconscious, but still…

And she didn’t feel up to showing herself at any of the slew of recent ones. Thirty-two from both sides after what they’re already calling Victory Night, which seems a bit ironically cheerful to Daphne.

“Muggle Jews have the same tradition,” Anthony says. His hand is still tightly wrapped in hers.

The hard edge of Granger’s expression softens slightly. “Yes. I remember reading that.” She turns to Ginny. “I couldn’t. It was all… too soon.”

“Mum was worried about you, Hermione,” Ginny says, and Daphne is split between feeling as if she wants to warn the younger girl to ease up on the one hand, and watching the fireworks on the other. “We all were.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Hermione’s face has gone hard again. “Lose one of nine and you’ve got to fill the space, after all.”

Now Ginny starts to color—why she’s surprised that Granger is snapping at her Daphne can’t tell. “Just because I had five other brothers doesn’t mean that losing Ron didn’t devastate us all. I’m on your side, Hermione, I know you loved—”

“Yes, well, you lost Ron, and I’m sorry for you, for all of you.” Granger is staring out the window again, hands in her lap wringing. “I had two friends in the world. One of them died in my lap, and I couldn’t do a _bloody_ thing to save him, and the other one went off with _you_ and came back a shell, for all the world as if he had been _Kissed—_ ”

“ _I’m_ your friend, Hermione! We all are!” shouts Ginny Weasley. “You’re not… Don’t you _dare_ say what happened to Harry is my fault!”

“Ginny,” murmurs Lovegood. “I don’t think that—”

“Oh, no,” says Granger fiercely, eyes still averted, “no, Harry did that all on his own, just as he’s been trying to do for years. But I _saw_ you in that room; your brother was dying and you _didn’t even spare him a look back_.”

Luna reaches across to Ginny and Anthony starts to interject, but Ginny holds up one straight-fingered hand. “I didn’t _see_ him. I was there to help Harry; that was all that I saw. Do you honestly think—?”

“Ron _died_! In my _lap_! And…” Tears start to dribble down the sides of Granger’s nose; she swipes at them angrily.

“Pansy feels just the same,” Daphne finds herself saying. “Wishes there’d been something she could do. She feels—”

Again Granger snarls a kind of a laugh. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t have the space to worry about _Pansy Parkinson’s_ feelings at the moment.”

“Hermione,” Luna says, her voice just as placid as always, “you’re not alone. We all miss him. We all regret his loss. And Professor Lupin’s. And Ernie McMillan’s. And Fleur Weasley’s. And the rest. But—”

“Oh. Fleur.” Hermione’s hand finds her mouth. “I—I’d forgotten. Oh.”

They all sit there, listening to the carriage rattle and creak.

Daphne finds that she can’t stand it. “Hard to keep the deaths all straight, isn’t it? I still haven’t gotten used to Teddy Nott’s.” She feels as if she might start giggling, which would not be good just at the moment. Perhaps she is losing her mind? She and Lovegood can have some lovely conversations.

Hermione Granger actually laughs sadly with Daphne, which should be reassuring but somehow isn’t. “None of us have. Or Professor Slughorn. Or Professor Dumbledore. Or Sirius Black…” Hand unsteady, she reaches up and brushes the fringe from Harry Potter’s forehead; he doesn’t react. Again, tears well up in the girl’s eyes and Daphne is more than a little annoyed to find her own single one spilling over in sympathy. A wobble in her voice, Hermione puts on an attempt at a smile and says, “So, Luna, it must be gratifying to see your theory proved correct.”

“Which theory?” asks Lovegood, cocking her head.

“The last time that we were on this train. The… The theory that love is simply a series of physical and social impulses. Q. E. D.”

For the first time Lovegood’s expression turns sad. “Ah. I’m afraid that I’ve taken rather the opposite view of the events of the past months. It seems to me that, taking all of the data into consideration, that love- _qua_ -love does indeed exist. I cannot see any other explanation for many of the phenomena that we have all observed.”

Hermione laughs again, wetter and sadder. “I don’t know that I can stand that answer.”

“It is true,” Luna Lovegood answers, her voice gentle and more focused than Daphne has ever heard it. “Love is not _nice_ or _pleasant_ much of the time. But it is quite wonderful, I think. And its force in the universe does seem to tend to the good.” She reaches across and caresses the hand with which Ginny Weasley is holding Harry Potter’s hand.

Hermione looks down at the three hands, then flashes a wet glance over to Daphne and Anthony and looks back out the window, tears now flowing freely down her face. Pansy never cried these past weeks. Yelled. Bellowed. Never cried. “I suppose,” she says. Her hands begin to wring themselves again. “I suppose. How…? How is poor Bill?”

Ginny, who is crying too, though not as voluminously, sighs. “Awful. As you’d expect.” She puts her free hand over Loony’s. “I don’t know whether it’s Fleur’s death that kills him the most, or that he wasn’t there in time, or Ron, or that he couldn’t save Ernie… Or Tonks. Poor Tonks.”

“Nymphadora will be all right,” Luna murmurs soothingly. When Hermione snorts dismissively, she continues, “Well, Ginny’s brother Charles won’t leave her alone to wallow. She’s thrown some things at him, but I think she’ll be all right.”

“Yes, but will Charlie?” snorts Granger, and after a moment of shock the whole compartment laughs. Daphne can’t even say why she’s laughing, but she is, and it is a relief. After a while they all settle back into silence, and it is a sad silence again—all silences seem sad just now—but it doesn’t seem a particularly awful one. Daphne starts to run her thumb up the crease of Anthony’s palm and starts to consider kicking them all out again and snogging him silly when Granger—Hermione—sighs and leans her head against the blurred colors of the window.

“I even feel guilty _laughing_ ,” she says quietly. “Ron can’t laugh, nor Harry. If anyone deserved to laugh at the awfulness of all of this, it was they.”

“Then maybe,” prompts Anthony, “that’s the best way to remember them.”

“Maybe,” grants Granger. Hermione.

“And Harry is not gone,” says Lovegood, patting Potter’s hand, and Ginny’s. “Perhaps what seems to be a shell is merely a chrysalis.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione says—sighs again. “But I can’t see him metamorphosing into anything more wonderful than he was; and it hardly seems fair.”

“No,” murmurs Ginny.

“Yes,” sighs Lovegood.

Looking across at the famous face, which seems so devoid of life, and yet so full of promise , Daphne can’t decide which answer seems most likely.

“So,” says Hermione briskly, looking back at the two sixth-years, “what are you going to do with all of the money?”

“Do?” asks Lovegood, eyes rather disconcertingly wide.

“Money?” asks Ginny, eyes narrowed to slits.

“His will, of course.” Hermione says matter-of-factly and pats them—no, pats _Harry_ , on the arm. “You are his main beneficiaries.”

Both girls look utterly shocked. “I don’t want his money,” Ginny gasps.

“He is still alive,” points out Lovegood.

“Well, yes,” Hermione agrees—with Lovegood, Daphne is certain. “But he visited the Davies brothers just before… Before. And they helped him draw up a trust that covers all of his assets in the event of his death or incapacity. Ron and I were to be co-trustees.”

“I don’t want his money,” repeats Ginny, looking as if she might be sick.

“He’s the richest man in England, muggle or wizard,” says Anthony, and Daphne finds herself blinking at him. “My father manages what’s left of Parkinson and Patil’s. He was saying that between the Potter money, and the Black and Malfoy estates, he’s got a controlling interest in about half of the firms in wizarding Britain, and hundreds of Muggle firms as well.”

Pansy. Her father has never been found. Poor… But _Merlin_ , the gold!

“And properties in every county,” adds Hermione, “not to mention homes and businesses in forty-nine different countries.”

“Forty-nine is a multiple of seven,” says Lovegood, who looks to have cracked completely.

“You can’t just let it all sit there,” says Anthony.

“Sit?” murmurs Lovegood.

“Assets need to _work_ ,” says Anthony, and he looks to Daphne as if for confirmation. She nods, though she has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Or,,,” Ginny says, and she is getting some of her color back, looking from Harry’s face to Luna’s and then to Hermione’s. “Hermione, he didn’t want the money either, did he?”

Granger is looking more herself now—cat-like. Mind clicking. “No. He’d never had anything. I don’t think he ever had any use for _things_.” She smiles, and it is the first genuine smile that Daphne can ever remember seeing from the ever-serious Hermione Granger. “There is a lot of good that could be done with that money, you know.”

“Good?” Anthony asks. “You mean, give it away?”

“No,” says Ginny, “you wouldn’t have to give it away, exactly, would you?”

“No,” agrees Hermione. “Through the companies that he owns—that you own, you could encourage progressive policies and educate the wizarding population. About Muggles, and about other races. About governmental reform.”

“About kryptozoology,” says Lovegood, huge eyes sparkling. “And magical research.”

“Loans to help people rebuild,” adds Anthony, and he is beginning to look excited too.

They are all looking at the unspeaking, unblinking boy—man—who brought them all to this place.

“That all sounds great,” Daphne agrees, and it does, in an abstract, wouldn’t that be nice way. “But first, don’t you think he should throw everyone a huge, fabulous, firewhisky-and-fireworks blowout of a party?”

After a moment, they all laugh and agree and as the train rockets northward, Daphne finds herself in the midst of planning a party for the whole of wizarding Britain—a job she was born to, a job that she’d give her _other_ eye to do. Laughing, and chatting, and pressing herself against Anthony—mentally ticking off all of the places between the Slytherin dungeons and the Ravenclaw tower where she’ll be able to drag him after the feast tonight—she finds herself looking at Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived. At Ginny and at Luna, who has traded places when Hermione came over to talk finance with Anthony, and who is stroking Harry’s hand and Ginny’s in a manner that makes her desperate to be able to talk to Pansy—only she knows that there is something about what she is seeing that Pansy is not ready to hear, and that she, Daphne, should not intrude on. _Come back,_ she thinks, looking at Harry’s intent, blank face. _You don’t want to miss this._

And then Anthony’s fingers run along the inside of her arm, and she is laughing and talking and thinking through just how much butterbeer you would need to throw a party for the whole of wizarding Britain.

 _Carpe diem_ and all that. Seize the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art is Antosha, “Head Boy Badge”
> 
> Just the epilogue to go!


	38. Epilogue - Back to the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In our beginning is our end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To aberforths_rug. I can no other answer give but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.
> 
> Thank you too to all of you who have read and commented and threatened and questioned, and made me think. You too are wonderful.
> 
> Warnings: None. (Well, a moment of very mild partial nudity. But come on, after all of this...?)

Pansy stretched and rolled her neck. Really, for anyone else, she’d have said no. She’d had three twenty-hour shifts at St. Mungo’s in the past week, and playing nursemaid was hardly her idea of fun.

Even if the baby she’d been minding was Harry Potter, the Sprout Who Lived. For seven years, the wizarding world’s most famous vegetable.

No. That wasn’t why. That wasn’t why she’d come straight to the old headquarters from the hospital while the rest of them set about playing _house_ in the nasty old dump, moving furniture, painting walls, opening windows, pretending any amount of spit and polish could make it any less depressing. It was that _Hermione_ asked. _Granger_. With whom Pansy hardly ever exchanged words, and certainly none that were even vaguely _civil_.

There are some things you can’t share without ending up… Well, not _liking_ each other, certainly, but connecting, even if you otherwise have nothing to say to one another. Sitting and watching the lover you shared in common die—apparently that was one.

And so there Pansy was. Tired. Cranky, which wasn’t much of a change for her. Dirty. “Come on, Potter,” she muttered, steering him in to the room that had briefly been hers and Tracey’s and Millie’s back before…. Before. She kicked the door more or less closed and led him over to a sheet-draped chair, and with the practiced ease of someone who spent her days maneuvering people who were a lot less cooperative, got him to sit, and began to strip. Hospital robes. Hospital top. Fraying, industrial-issue bra. All smelling of her, and of St. Mungo’s, and of sickness and death. Off with them.

Laying the disgusting things on her old bed, she began Scourgifying them. “One thing you’re not sorry you’re missing, Potter,” she said, “the lovely _odeur de_ Pansy.”

“Is that you in there, Pansy?” called the voice among all others that set her teeth on edge. She didn’t have a chance to answer, nor to throw anything on before Granger bustled through the door. “Good, there— _PANSY!_ ”

For a moment, Pansy started to cover her naked upper half, but why bother? Hands on hips that were feeling the affects of gravity far earlier than they should, she faced her one-time nemesis, tits high. “Nice to see you too, Granger. Ever hear of knocking?”

“What…?” Hermione blinked and then averted her eyes. “You shouldn’t. In front of Harry.”

“Not like he can see them, now, is it?” sneered Pansy, beginning to play with her breasts, partially to irritate Granger, and partially because they are bloody sore. Playfully, she turned to the level-III comatic seated at her side and juggled her bosoms like a pair of underdone plum puddings. ( _Not a whore…_ ) “Not as if he hasn’t seen it before.”

“Pansy!” Hermione gasped “ _Harry_ …?”

“Not _mine_ , you silly woman,” laughed Pansy, a sign that she must be sleep-deprived, since she hardly ever laughed these days. “The tiny, tender titties of his Sun and Moon.” _Witch Weekly_ had been calling them that for the past few years, even as their gossip columns theorized all sorts of sordid theories about the nature of the relationship between the Boy Who Stared and the two girls who’d borne his eerie children. Pansy turned back to Hermione, rubbing the bottoms of her breasts now truly for relief rather than effect. “And yours, perhaps?”

“No,” said Hermione primly.

“ _Really_?” gasped Pansy.

“No,” Hermione answered, and then lifted her chin and smiled. “Only Ron.”

“Shame,” said Pansy with a smirk and then a shake of the head. “Truly. Not even Beautiful Bill?”

Hermione’s eyed narrowed, but her chin remained high and challenging. “No. Bill and I… are just spending time together. We aren’t intimate.”

“ _Yet_. Merlin, woman, what are you waiting for? He’s gorgeous.” Scars and all. “And if he’s anything like…”

Hermione paled, and Pansy’s fingers flew to her own mouth. “Hell. Sorry.”

“No. It’s all right.” Hermione Granger’s face looked still and sad and tired, an expression that was far too familiar to Pansy. “It’s not as if there’s anyone else who knew what a wonderful lover he was. I… It’s nice to know that I’m not just mad.”

“Not just.” Pansy sighed, and began putting her clothes back on. “Not Big Boobs Brown?”

Still pale, Hermione gave a small, unlikely smile. “No. She thought him rather disappointing, as it happens.”

“You’re _joking_!”

“No.” Hermione’s smile grew broader, but harder-edged. Pansy braced herself. “Pansy?”

“Yes?”

“I… I never really hated you, you know. I was furious with him. And I hated… who I _thought_ you were. But I didn’t really know you. I’m sorry.”

Whatever Pansy had anticipated Hermione saying, that wasn’t it. A thick lump of something like grief lodged itself in her esophagus; she turned back to Potter, who was staring in the direction of the grimy window. “No problem. Long past.”

“But I needed to say it. I’ve needed to for a while.” Hermione touched Pansy’s shoulder; Pansy had to stop herself from jumping. “And it’s not long past. I’m still dealing with the fallout of those last months of the war. As are Ginny and Luna and poor Harry. And Pandeia and Little Ron. And Tonks. As is Bill. As are you.”

“Yes, well…” Pansy shivered, clutching her own arms tightly against her chest—it didn’t take much to bring that horrible sense of _rivening_ back, that sense of being torn from herself; she had fought against it, climbed her way out of that trap, and she’d be _damned…_

“In any case…” Hermione’s voice was low. Her hand dropped from Pansy’s shoulder and she began to walk away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Pansy turned before the other woman’s footsteps reached the door. “You’re forgiven.” Pansy meant to say it with a sneer, meant to slap Granger with it, but found that she meant the words after all. “I’m s-sorry too.”

Hermione turned, the sad smile still on her face. “You’re forgiven.”

They stood there, silent for a moment.

“So,” Hermione said, finally, “how are things at the hospital?”

“Dreadful,” said Pansy as automatically as taking a pulse. “I mean, not really. Just dreary. It’s all those sick people, you know.”

“When does your apprenticeship end?”

“Next July.” _Allons enfants de la patrie…_ “How’s the school?” _St. Brutus’s School for the Gifted._ A primary school for Muggleborns. The idea still struck Pansy as ludicrous, all the more so since it was being run out of the old Malfoy estate. Even so, it made Pansy smile to think of the language that Draco would have used if he’d seen the purpose to which his family manse was being put.

Hermione’s smile widened, and there was nothing hard about it this time. “Wonderful! We’ve got four classrooms now, with fifty-eight children, with half a dozen of them actually from wizarding families! We’ve begun offering age-appropriate Muggle Studies lessons, and so—”

“That’s great.” Pansy sometimes forgot how enthusiastic Granger could be. “Daphne’s kept me apprised.”

“Oh, she’s been wonderful!” gushed Hermione, all of the somberness melting away. “Especially with the younger ones—they just love her. The boys think the eye patch is quite fascinating.”

“As does Goldstein, as Daphne informs me _ad nauseum_. Did she tell you?”

“Oh! Yes! He proposed!” Some of the sadness crept back into Hermione’s expression. “She’s a lucky woman. I know that Luna and Ginny would have been overwhelmed running all of the Potter charities without him.”

“Goldstein’s all right,” granted Pansy. “Merlin, it’s a bloody Noah’s Ark around here.”

“True, lots of weddings lately. I saw you at Padma and Fred’s in April. And then of course there was George and Verity’s. And Charlie and Angua’s…”

The first room that Pansy had dragged Harry to had been the old master bedroom—which had been occupied by a fully preoccupied Mr. and Mrs. Charles Weasley. Pansy really hadn’t needed to know just how much of what she had so enjoyed of Ron was shared by his brother. “Why the hell is she calling herself that, anyway?”

Hermione snorted. “Oh, it’s from one of those Muggle fantasy novels that Charlie’s always reading. She’s a werewolf Auror in a series of books—”

“Whatever.”

“Yes. Whatever.” Hermione shrugged. It was _odd_ to be talking to her like this, as if they were _mates_ , and yet there was a kind of deep relief in it. Pansy still had few mates. And no _mates_ , of course. “Ginny and Luna are thinking of going over to Holland to be married, by the way.”

“They can _do_ that?” Truth be told, of all of the couples that she knew, Lovegood and the Weaslette were the one Pansy most envied. When Daphne first told Pansy about her suspicions—this was before the girls even started showing their matching round bellies at school—one of the first thoughts that had occurred to Pansy was to wonder whether she could have _stayed_ with… That last afternoon, walking in on them ( _Sweaty back and bouncing bum astride…_ ), she could have…

But the fact of the matter was that Hermione wouldn’t have welcomed it. And having another woman—Granger especially—touching her would have made Pansy feel… Well, certainly not _sexy_.

And Ron had made his choice and made it clearly.

Draco?

No. It wouldn’t have been a _ménage à trois_ , with Draco. Another woman, another man, whatever—it would have been a harem. A _ménage à_ Draco. And that idea held no appeal for Pansy at all.

She shook her head to find Granger blathering on about the Dutch Ministry and Muggle marriage laws.

“How nice,” Pansy interrupted. It _was_ nice. They weren’t bad, Lovegood and Weasley. The Sun and Moon. She reached back and ruffled Potter’s ever-ruffled hair. “Poor sod.”

“Yes.”

The quiet descended again.

No. “So, you and Bilius aren’t going to be hopping a broomstick anytime soon, are you?”

Granger blushed. “No. I told you. We’re just—”

“ _Friends_. Yeah. Come on. I’ve seen how these Weasleys work. They’re bloody matrimonial and procreating machines.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and peered at Pansy. “And you? Going to find some lucky pureblood to hook up with?”

“I don’t need a man to make my life complete,” Pansy said, and there was something very comfortable about the fact that after being almost at ease with each other, she and Granger were back to snapping. As it should be.

“Of course you don’t,” Hermione agreed. “But company is nice.”

Ah, well. Ease was pleasant too. “Who has time?”

“There is that.” Hermione started to pull a shrewd expression—it was a look that Pansy got from Daphne all of the time—usually just as she was about to launch into trying to fix Pansy up with some adenoidal, dull-as-Flobberworms employee of Goldstein’s—and Pansy instinctively raised her hands.

“Oh, how lovely.” A soft voice floated from the doorway. Luna Lovegood was holding her _fiancée-_ presumptive, who seemed to have been crying. “Here you are.”

“Is something wrong?” Pansy asked, her Medi-witch’s instincts prickling. Ginny didn’t seem to be injured…

“Punched Harry’s cousin,” Ginny sniveled as she and Luna crossed the room. “Lost my temper. Idiot”

“You punched…?” Pansy had no idea that there were any close living cousins in the Potter family tree.

When they reached Harry, each woman gave him a kiss on the lips; it was a gesture she’d seen them make more than once, and one that always struck Pansy as sweet, sad, and more than a bit disturbing.

“Dudley?” Hermione murmured. “Dudley Dursley is _here_?”

“Yes,” answered Luna with a smile. “I invited him into the back garden.”

Still sniffling, Ginny held onto the unblinking Potter from behind. She murmured into his hair, “We always thought he was a Muggle, but he must be a Squib to get in, or—”

“No,” Hermione gasped. “No. He’s a wizard. A relative of poor Professor Slughorn’s. He just… The family didn’t like… magic.”

This sounded preposterous to Pansy, but—

“Ginny,” said Hermione, sounding alarmed, “Dudley… Are you all right? He was a boxer!”

“Oh, Ginny’s first blow rendered him unconscious,” said Luna. Ginny snuggled up behind her, smirking even as she continued to cry. “That’s why we were looking for you, Pansy.”

“You left him unconscious? In the garden?”

“Eri is down there with the children. He seems to be perfectly stable.” Luna caressed Ginny’s damp, freckled cheek. ( _Freckles everywhere…_ ) “However we did think that having you look at him—”

“Right,” Pansy responded, shifting into professional mode without thinking. She took her charge and maneuvered him towards the door.

“We can mind Harry, Pansy,” sniffled Ginny.

“No. He needs fresh air,” she snapped. In point of fact, she’d pulled him up from the chair out of habit—he was her responsibility. But it was true. Fresh air was always a good thing. And Potter looked pale… “And you two stay here. When Dumbo or whatever his name is wakes, I don’t want him thinking Goliath here is gong to start attacking him again.”

Ginny snorted; Luna nodded serenely. “Do call us when he comes round. We’ll be back in the sitting room, seeing to the doxies.”

  
  


***

  
  


There was a flash of light and then a stab of intense cold. Dudley felt as if he were falling…

Redhead. Blonde. Kiss. Fist.

His eyes flew open.

What met his gaze—once he had adjusted to the brilliant light—was the saddest face that he had ever seen. It was a female face, pretty, though she looked as if her nose had been hit with an uppercut or two. Black hair—not blonde, not red—long neck, and a look as if she’d seen everything there was to see and it was none of it good.

Blinking, Dudley became aware of an overpowering scent of flowers—unlike anything Mum used to have in her garden or the nasty stuff she sprayed to make the house _smell nice_. It smelled like… Like…

“Am I dead?” he gasped.

“’ _Cause if I am, you must be an angel_?” said the sad face with a smirk. She raised a stick—wand—and Dudley winced, but there was another burst of cold against the back of his head, and some of the pain that he hadn’t even been aware of immediately faded. “Merlin, you’d think they’d come up with better pickup lines. No, you’re not dead. You were simply flattened by a girl a foot shorter and a good nine or ten stone lighter than you. Well done. Actually, I think most of the damage came from hitting your head when you fell—nasty concussion—but I believe I’ll have that sorted out in a moment.” Another pass of the wand, this one accompanied by a muttered phrase that sounded like something a bird would order in a Frog restaurant, and there was a flow of warmth that seemed to surround his skull in a cocoon of relief.

The face backed away—nice yabbos—and surveyed Dudley. “Well. That’s a start. Feel as if you can sit up?”

Dudley nodded, though the action brought back a ghost of the pain. The woman—the _witch_ put her hand under his shoulder and hefted him up. She even _smelled_ sad. “Thanks,” he muttered, before another stab of pain nearly made him black out again.

“Easy, there, Godric,” said the witch. “Don’t want you falling and hitting your head again.”

“No,” Dudley grunted. “Name’s not Godric.” A memory floated back to him out of the darkness and fireworks: _**Was** one of our lot. _“Oy,” he said, resting his head in his hands, closing his eyes. He could feel his mum’s locket falling against his shirt. “You… You’re, you know, a _witch_ , right?”

“Well observed, not-Godric.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do… Did you know a skinny bloke with black hair and green eyes name of Harry? Harry Potter?” Dudley dreaded hearing a sigh, or another roar.

He didn’t expect a bellow of laughter. “ _Know_ him? He’s the most famous wizard in Britain!”

“He… _is_?” An odd mix of _feelings_ rumbled in Dudley’s chest—annoyance, jealousy, hope… “He isn’t… dead? I thought the redhead said…?”

“No,” sighed the sad-faced witch with the upturned nose—didn’t look _hit_ , he decided. Looked pretty. Kind of. “No, poor bugger, he’s not dead. This is his house. His garden. He’s right over there.” Squinting his eyes open again, Dudley blinked and followed her pointing finger to the other side of the lush garden.

There was Harry, no doubt about it. Black, messy hair. Round glasses over green eyes that matched the foliage. Sitting stock still as a couple of little kids played tag around his bench while an older girl looked on, brown-haired and pretty like one of those glowy paintings Mum had used to keep in her bedroom after Dad… _Too_ pretty. The too-pretty minder was still too, but it was different from Harry. Harry was… “He’s… he’s my cousin.”

“Yes,” said the witch. “I know, not-Godric.”

“Name’s Dudley,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said, and he could hear a smile in it. “Not much resemblance, though.”

“Yeah, well, I got the looks,” Dudley said; it was his old joke, to which Harry would always make some smart comment about those clearly being the _piggy_ looks, and then something about the brains. Which would give Dudley the excuse to beat him silly. But…. “He got our gran’s eyes though.”

“Grey’s a nicer color,” the witch said, very quiet. She too was looking over at the other side of the garden.

Harry. There was something about the sight of him like that that was just… _wrong._ “What…?” he started to ask, and then shook his head, which gave him a twinge for his trouble.

“You really don’t know?” she asked. When he gently shook his head again, she sighed, a low, sorrowful sound that made the hair on the back of Dudley’s neck stand up. “He was in a battle—”

“With… Vole-dee-mart?”

A glum smile. “Close enough. Harry killed him, but he’s been in a magical coma ever since. He’s… _in_ there, somewhere, but we can’t get him to come back.”

Dudley blinked up; he liked this woman—liked her face, her shape, even her musty, sad smell. But old anger—remembering his great-uncle mincing away while his father _died_ on the floor, while his mum wept and pleaded, her locket bouncing on his dad’s blank face—flooded up in Dudley’s chest. “You lot, with your _wands_ and your _magic_ , you think you’re so special, but here you can’t help my cousin, now, can you?”

The witch’s mouth tensed, and for a moment Dudley is afraid that she’s going to turn him into a newt or blow him up like a bloody balloon or something. “No. No, we can’t. Magic can’t solve all problems.”

“ _Then what bloody use is it_?”

Again she sighed, and her hand came to rest on Dudley’s shoulder, light but firm. “I don’t know, Dudley. Honestly. I think it’s like any other skill or tool—it’s worth what you use it for.”

He started to swat at her hand, but found that he didn’t want it to leave. Still angry, still stunned, he looked at his cousin—his cousin that he’d never even liked, but _no one_ should live…

The two kids. They were looking at him. A boy with messy black hair and pale blue eyes. A girl with red hair and eyes so green… “Those…?” he gasped. “ _His_ kids?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “They’re your cousins too, I suppose. Funny, isn’t it?”

Pushing up—he discovered that he’d been lying on a broad stone step—Dudley started to stand. A bit wobbly, but…

“What are you doing?” the witch asked.

“I need to see him.”

“See…?”

“Harry. I got…” Dudley felt odd. He felt as if he knew what he needed to do, even though none of this made any sense at all. “I got something to give him.”

“You’ll not hurt him.” The witch was standing beside him. Her wand was up, and her face meant business.

“No! ‘Course not. He’s my cousin, isn’t he?” Dudley felt color creep up his neck.

“That doesn’t mean you won’t—” The sad face looked unconvinced.

“Promise. I won’t.” Dudley started to walk towards Harry—his legs walked and Dudley followed. He needed to… He didn’t know what he needed.

As he approached the group under the tree, the two kids moved to stand in front of Harry.

“He’s our dad,” said the boy. Except for the pale blue eyes, which were almost pupil-less in the bright sun, he looked just like the Harry that Dudley remembered… Six years old? The same stubborn expression that told you that you could hit him ‘till he cried, but he wasn’t going to give in.

The girl… The girl had the same dangerous, hunter’s look as that redheaded bint who’d sandbagged him. She didn’t say anything; she just stood scowling at Harry’s knee, arms crossed, looking very much like she’s be happy to deck him sure as her mum had.

“Er,” Dudley said, unsure how to proceed with such a welcoming committee.

He felt the witch-nurse walk up beside him. “Hey, Nott. This is Dudley. Dudley _Dursley_.” She said Dudley’s surname like it was a dirty word or something.

The girl who was minding Harry and the kids, the picture-pretty one, gazed at him with eyes that seemed like they were solid black; they were as creepy as the boy’s washed-out blue. “Hello, Pansy. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dudley. Children, this is your father’s cousin.”

The two munchkins stared up at him. The boy cocked his head. “Cousin?” he asked.

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re big.”

“Er, yeah,” Dudley said, and knelt, feeling silly to be towering over the two.

“This is Pandeia and Ronald Potter,” says the black-eyed girl. “And I am Eri Nott.”

“You’re not gonna hurt our daddy.” The girl Pandeia’s green eyes—Harry’s green eyes, their Gran Evans’s green eyes—blazed at him

“Yeah, well, your mum let me know that already, now, didn’t she?” Dudley said, trying to joke—how did you talk to sprogs?—pointing at his still-puffy eye.

“ _My_ mummy did that?” asked the girl, eyes widening.

“It was pro’lly my mummy,” the boy said. “Mummy Luna, Pandy’s mum, she never hits anyone, not even if they deserve it.”

“Er…” Dudley said.

The girl’s eyes narrowed again. “So what you got to say to our daddy?”

“Um,” Dudley mumbled and then had that same sense of the idea moving him—moving his mouth as it had moved his feet. “Got something to give him. Something his mum gave to my mum for him.” Mum on her deathbed, groaning, _Give this to Harry. Give this to Harry…_ Her last words, practically, other than, _House clean_? Fighting down the grief— _bloody feelings—_ Dudley reached under his shirt and pulls out the little bird locket.

“Pretty,” _oooooo_ ed the girl.

The little golden cuckoo glowed as Dudley removed it from his neck, and for the first time since his father’s death it gave off a shower of golden sparks. Now the hair went up all over Dudley’s body; there was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and he was relieved that this thing affected even these freaky folks, because it was definitely…

The children scooted behind their minder, Eri Nott, whose face is still placid, but whose eyes showed whites for the first time.

Harry was the only one of the lot who was totally unaffected—still pulling a face that looked as if he were thinking about something really nice that was on the other side of the bloody world. Dudley took the chain and began to lift it over his cousin’s head; there was a locket already there, showing a set of five hearts dancing around each other. Harry didn’t blink. His eyes didn’t move at all. “Bloody hell, Harry,” whispered Dudley. “What’s wrong with you?”

  
  


***

  
  


Harry watched the scene as always with great interest, but as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope: Dudley putting a golden bird necklace over his head and onto his neck.

_What the hell is **that**? _he wondered.

Firesong’s familiar presence—his only companion through seven long, lonely years of watching, worrying and considering from a distance—sang to him, _It is an object that has the power to grant you release, and me, if you so wish it._

_Release?_

_Do you remember what Luna Lovegood said to you about magic and music, time and love?_ cooed phoenix’s spirit within Harry’s mind.

_Yes_.

_This object unlocks that power—but only if you allow it to do so._ Firesong’s music was bright and hopeful even as it trilled on in a minor key.

_Release?_ Harry thought again—understanding somewhat this time, but fearing to believe.

_For you and for me_.

Then Harry began to believe, felt the burning ache of seven years of not being able to speak to those he loved, of being a _part_ of the world; even as hope thrilled through him, a new question arose. _If I am… released, Firesong, will you be reborn?_

The phoenix song soared through Harry’s mind, and if he had had eyes to cry, he would have wept. _No, Harry. When I crossed into the Deathly Hallows I burned for the last time. My flame destroyed your link to Tom Riddle. That body went with him beyond the veil_.

_No!_ cried Harry in his mind, but the phoenix song swelled on.

_I have lived two thousand burnings and more, Harry Potter. I have seen what is to be seen and cherished what is to be cherished._ _I have watched as my companions have left, one after another. Do not begrudge me my own time, Harry Potter._

_Oh, Firesong,_ wept Harry inwardly.

_Look,_ said the phoenix. _You know what you need._

Around Harry’s neck, the golden sparks flew and expanded, an unburning flame. _I’ll miss you_ , he thought.

_As I you,_ sang the phoenix joyfully. _You know, better than most, that those we love never leave us._

The sparks exploded, an apocalypse of light.

_Farewell, Harry—_

  
  


***

  
  


Harry blinked.

He _blinked._

Even as he grieved to feel Firesong’s spirit fading away with the flame’s afterglow, a wave of pure joy swept through him, borne on the scent of grass and flowers and the sound of wind in the leaves. In the matching open mouths of Pansy Parkinson and Dudley Dursley.

“Hey, Big D,” Harry croaked. “Good to see you.”

There was joy, too, in the sight of Dudley Dursley fainting dead away at his feet.

“And Pansy—nice pair.”

As Pansy plopped down unceremoniously in the grass, mouth open, hands over her breasts, Harry whooped with joy and twirled to see two faces—faces that he had come to know through that long lens of his confinement, but whose owners were the strangers he had most longed to return to. They were frightened.

“Hello,” Harry said, as the uncried tears of seven year began to wash down his cheeks. “I’m your father.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy Ginny!” Pandeia’s raucous voice echoed up through the empty rooms and hallways of Grimmauld Place. Her daughter’s voice always made Luna smile—not least because, like her face and hair, it was a constant reminder of the circumstances of her conception, of the two people in this world whom Luna most loved.

“In here, Pandy love,” called Ginny, who was finally smiling again. “Bet Dudley’s finally up again. I feel ridiculous having to apologize to that _prat_.”

“Kindness shown is coin that’s never spent,” recited Luna, and was pleased to find Ginny’s lips upon her own even as the final _t_ left her tongue.

The children burst into the room, babbling one over the other—even Ginny’s son Ronnie, who was usually slow to speech.

“Children,” said Luna, knowing that they would not hear her.

“One at a time!” laughed Ginny and of course the two children blinked and looked at each other, trying to work out who should go first.

“So,” Luna prompted, “is your father’s cousin awake?”

“Yes!” gasped Pandeia.

“And fainted again,” added Ronald.

“And…” began Pandeia, her lovely, freckled lower lip starting to quiver.

“And Daddy woke too,” finished Ronald.

The next five minutes were the shortest of Luna’s life. She could never say afterwards by what route she, Ginny and the children reached the garden, but there they were, watching Harry— _HARRY—_ hug his cousin and Pansy and a weeping Hermione and a smiling Eri Nott.

Turning and seeing them, he fell to his knees and opened his arms. The children ran into his embrace, and Ginny followed not far behind, kissing every exposed inch of his face and neck. Harry laughed. Harry squealed. Harry howled.

**Observations:** Harry Potter has returned. Harry Potter is happy. Harry Potter is embracing those he loves. Ginny Weasley has missed Harry Potter as a Snorkack misses the sun in wintertime. Pandeia and Ronald Potter have longed to know their father. **Hypotheses:** They are content and pleased to embrace so. Luna Lovegood’s presence would be superfluous. **Inferences:** There is a time for traditional familial configurations. **Possible courses of Action** : Back slowly away.

“Luna,” called the familiar voice that even she who could believe in things unseen had not thought to hear again. On his knees, draped in laughing children and a weeping Ginny, he held one free arm out to her. “Please.”

Luna joined them—felt Harry’s touch and Ronnie’s and Ginny’s and her daughter’s and she thought perhaps that she might explode. There was hugging and laughter all around them.

“You were right,” Harry whispered in her ear. “Love is real. It leaves scars and it hurts and it can kill. But it is real.”

Luna lost herself in the words, and in Ginny’s arms and their children’s kisses.

_Love is real._

_Love is real._

_Love is real._

And for the most part, she found, letting logic slip away in a slick haze of lips and fingers and hair and laughter and joy, it was more than somewhat pleasant.

  
  
***

>   
>    
>    
>  _So can I walk beside you?  
>  I've come here to lose the smog,  
> I feel like I'm a cog in something turning round and round.  
>   
> Maybe it's just the time of year,  
> Maybe it's the time of man.  
> I don't know who I am,  
> But life is for learning.  
>   
> We are stardust, we are golden,  
> And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.  
>   
> We are stardust, we are golden,  
> And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.  
>   
> —Joni Mitchell_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art (and end-of-chapter art) is TomScribble, “Love Is Real” — commissioned by moi.
> 
> A/N: Thank you for reading to this point. I hope that your journey has been a more than somewhat pleasant one, and that we on Antosha Ficways can serve you again in the future...


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